


Save A Horse, Ride A Cowboy

by OtterHell



Category: Overwatch (Video Game), overwatch
Genre: Canon Divergent, Competence Kink, Emotional Slow Burn, Enemies to Lovers, Fighting, Fuckbuddies, Long, M/M, Mutual Pining, Pining, Road Trip, Saving Each Other, Slow Burn, Sort Of, Switching, Wild West, apocalypse au, both physically and emotionally, but he is a fool, but it's a lie, gruff men in love, jesse mccree is not an idiot, kind of, they fuck in like chapter 3 or smth, this has all the trappings of a slow burn, this is incredibly long, to be fair so is hanzo
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-10-13
Updated: 2019-02-14
Packaged: 2019-08-01 17:11:48
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 5
Words: 39,162
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16288547
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/OtterHell/pseuds/OtterHell
Summary: The heat of the desert sun. The lingering smoke of a gun just fired. The wild, forlorn cry of the coyote. In a not-so-distant future where the West is wilder than it has ever been, one man seeks redemption and another maybe, just possibly, can offer it.------------"Name's McCree," he drawled easily, unperturbed by the notion of mentioning his name in a bar where everyone already knew who he was - and what kind of bounty sat on his head."Consider me a tour guide of sorts. No one knows this land like I do." All the way from the Mexican border to the Mason-Dixon line. Jesse knew the layout of the map better than anyone there. "I can tell you where the next best waterin' hole is, or where they'll take those credits of yours and exchange them for some real currency." The whole Wasteland was a hive of black markets and villainy, which could only be exported outside the border with legal tender. Laundering schemes were rampant, and Jesse knew just who to go to to get his hard-earned pay exchanged for easy bullets."Even better - I can get you where you're goin', without all those unnecessary detours, and -" he raised his right hand, metal fingers glinting in the low light, "- I even take credit."





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Alright folks, strap ya dicks in. This rp has been going on since the Year Of Our Lord 2016! It just had it's 2-year anniversary, and let us tell y'all that it's been a wild ride from start to finish. We hope you enjoy reading it as much as we've enjoyed writing it these past few years!
> 
> \-----------------------
> 
> This account is run and managed by two people: Tea and Fresh.
> 
> We are RP partners, and we're using this platform to unload our (copious) number of RPs.  
> Mostly smut, tbh.
> 
> The POV changes frequently, given the nature of roleplay writing, and if there are any noticeable continuity gaps it's 100% because the rp was abandoned for a few days/weeks before getting picked up again.
> 
> None of these works have been edited, touched up, or polished.

It was high noon. 

 

The sun glared down from its perch in the pale orange sky, its wicked heat inescapable. Before him, as far as his eyes could see, stretched an ocean of rust coloured sand. The flat landscape was interrupted only by cliffs of striped limestone, their forms oddly geometric, as if intentionally sculpted by the ice and wind and war that had shaped the land over many centuries. Farther in the distance, toward where the red sky curved to meet the horizon, vast craters carved into the desert – remnants of missiles dropped long ago, whose impact had left eternal scars upon the scorched earth.

 

It was a breathtaking sight, a barren and alien world drenched in warm sepia tones. But it was less appreciable actually being here, with the sun’s rays beating down, unhindered by clouds or ozone. It was hot and dry in a way Hanzo Shimada had never experienced before, in a way that stole the moisture right off his tongue and sapped the strength from his bones. 

 

A whir of cicadas filled his ears, buzzing in time to the throb of heat beneath his shoes. There was no wind to speak of; the low-growing shrubs and cacti – whose existence baffled Hanzo, for how could anything survive in this place? – squatted motionless across the sand. The heat felt oppressive with neither shade nor breeze to offer reprieve.

 

This was Hell, Hanzo concluded; a deceptively picturesque, but nonetheless deadly hell, and not solely due to the lifeless lands and inhospitable climate.

 

He took a swig of his gourd and felt a single drop of warm, stale water land on his tongue. With a grimace, he tied it back onto his belt and squinted off into the west. There, he could faintly make out a disorganized collection scrap-metal hovels and dilapidated brick buildings that suggested a township. It was gang-run, no doubt, much like everything else in this desert. The United States government had long ago written off its southern states as uninhabitable after the wars had reduced them to irradiated wastelands. Criminals and fugitives began to trickle in over the years, drawn to the promise of freedom from law and order. They could carry out their dealings here without fear of reprisal from any body of law enforcement.

 

Naturally, everything slipped into chaos. This no man’s land was now a throwback to the uncharted frontiers of the wild west, its population consisting almost entirely of honorless thugs.

 

_ ‘I was more than that _ ,’ Hanzo told himself, not for the first time. The thought still lacked conviction, offering only a hollow comfort at best – for whatever he had been, heir to an empire of gold or dirt, the crown fit him no longer. Now he was nothing, stripped of home and title, a fugitive hunted by his own family. Perhaps he should not be so disdainful of this hornet's nest of thieves and degenerates. Perhaps he belonged here, after all.

 

He reached the edge of the town, where a rusted pre-war sign read  _ Route 66 _ . The cracked remnants of an old asphalt highway cut through the town’s centre, mostly buried by dirt and sand. Hanzo kept to this path, his head lowered, the back of his neck burning under the furious leer of the sun. 

 

There were very few people outside. Those that were stood under the shade provided by awnings and covered porches. Even these desert-dwellers, accustomed to the terrible heat, must think it too hot to venture outside. 

 

Hanzo cursed beneath his breath. He felt exhausted. His kyudo-gi clung to his sweat-slick skin, shielding him from the sun's radiation but not its oppressive heat. His hair stuck to his temples, and his eyes stung from beads of salt that dripped from his brow. His back ached from where Stormbow and his quiver dug into his spine and shoulders, their weight normally unobtrusive but now nearly unbearable after a day's worth of walking.

 

Much to his relief, this town clearly catered to travelers. After a short walk down its central road, Hanzo spotted a derelict looking pre-war building a hundred meters off the path. Above the door, painted in fading, squared lettering, read:  _ The Panorama Diner _ .

 

Hanzo was too exhausted to consider his other options; surely a gang-run saloon was better than dying of heatstroke and thirst in the desert. He headed inside, and nearly collapsed with relief the moment a whip of cool air met his face. It was dark here. The lights had either been dimmed or shut off entirely, perhaps to conserve energy or to keep away the afternoon heat. Music played loudly from somewhere nearby, but the twang of a guitar and the warbling voice that accompanied it was nearly drowned out by the cacophony of voices filling the space. The many booths and tables in the room were occupied, most of them by obvious gangbangers who entertained themselves with cards and dice and riotous conversation over chipped glasses of liquor. 

 

Hanzo tried to hide his disdain as he navigated through them, still keeping his head down like this might serve to keep him relatively invisible. He could feel a few eyes migrate his way, a few lively conversations hush to curious whispers, but no one made any move to intercept him. ‘ _ Good _ ,’ he thought. Hanzo had no desire to rouse suspicion.

 

He was, after all, a wanted man – though surely not by anyone in this corner of the world. Those that hunted him were still continents away, separated by many miles of ocean. They wouldn't think to come for Hanzo here. Just finding air passage to this southern wasteland had proven challenging; no commercial flights traveled to this place any longer, for there was nothing to travel  _ to _ . 

 

There was only endless desert, and sand, and heat, and noisy low-life criminals whose voices were already grating on Hanzo's frazzled patience. He missed the silence outside, the quiet background hum of the cicadas. It had been scorching hot, but at least it had been peaceful.

He sat down in one of the unoccupied vinyl-cushioned stools at the bar, resting his elbows atop the counter and resisting the urge to slump forward. Instead, he peered at the LED menus illuminated above, his sharp eyes scanning the many items displayed across the flickering screen. He quickly grew impatient. Nothing looked familiar to him among the countless names of dishes that were either woefully unfunny anachronisms or contained words Hanzo couldn't quite parse. He grated his teeth and peered around for the bartender, finding them a short distance away with their back turned as they worked on polishing a mismatching set of mugs. Hanzo pointedly cleared his throat, once to no avail, then a second time with greater volume before he caught the bartender's attention.

 

When they turned to face him, their metal faceplate only vaguely humanoid, with two empty slits for eyes, Hanzo felt his hackles instinctively raise.  _ Omnic _ . 

 

He should not feel so surprised; there were no laws against them here. There were no laws at  _ all _ . And these wayward vermin, subsisting off the scattered remnants of a centuries' old war, probably found no quarrel in recommissioning the very machines that had sparked conflict in the first place. Most everywhere else, the use and develop of AI had been outlawed. With good reason, Hanzo thought; Omnics possessed human-like intelligence, but not morality. They were senseless machines, dangers to mankind.

 

His lip curled, but he said nothing until the Omnic spoke, its voice a pleasant, synthetic drawl.

"Howdy, stranger. What can I do you for?"

 

Hanzo considered keeping silent, or turning the machine away, but he was too tired and parched to snub its hospitality, and so he said simply: "Water".

 

The machine appeared to stare at him for a moment, as though it was attempting to process his request. Hanzo scowled. Almost as if in embarrassment or nervousness, it turned away sharply and set about filling a stained coffee mug with water from a large, plastic jug. Hanzo took it as swiftly as it was placed in front of him, downed the entirety of it in seconds, and slammed it back down on the counter.

 

"More," he demanded, and the machine obeyed without another word. Hanzo was glad for that, at least. He had no desire to speak with it.

 

Unfortunately, this meant he would need to find someone in this room to inquire about lodgings and directions. It was a distasteful chore, to be sure, but still better than conversing with an Omnic, and so Hanzo glanced over his shoulder as he swigged back another mug of cool water. He glanced across the bar for someone, preferably without company, who did not look particularly insufferable. His first sweep yielded nothing. Hanzo grimaced and slammed his mug down a second time; the Omnic refilled it without needing to be asked. At least it was efficient.

By his fourth helping of water, Hanzo turned his back to the room again, leaning onto his elbows and allowing himself a brief pause from his vigilant scouting to close his eyes. He was worn to the bone, his energy evaporated by the sun and his body sore and aching from sleep deprivation and exertion. He needed to find a place to rest and recuperate – if such a place even existed in this cesspool.

 

The noise in the room was beginning to die down. It started first with the music stopping as the song came to an end, followed by an abrupt hush in conversation. Hanzo sighed to himself, relishing in the relative quiet that hung over the saloon, too relieved to even consider what had brought it on in the first place. It was almost tempting to doze off like this, hunched over the bar counter with his hands still clutching his empty mug of water.

 

Then, as if purposefully shattering his moment of calm just as Hanzo settled into it, the Omnic began to speak.

 

“How’ll you be payin’ today, sir?” it asked, in that same irksome accent. Hanzo opened his eyes to peer across at it, clearly in a dour mood for having been interrupted so unnecessarily. He could pay when he was ready – why did this machine seem to think otherwise?

It may have just been its programming, but Hanzo was still displeased.

 

“Credit,” he answered curtly, still sticking to one-word replies. They expedited the conversation, which, considering how little Hanzo wished to speak with this Omnic, was preferable. He slid his empty mug forward, then extended his hand, palm open and facing the ceiling in silent offering. He had a credit chip implanted in his right thumb – nearly everyone did, for the use of paper money and plastic cards was now all but obsolete. He anticipated that the Omnic would have a scanner; even in this bleak wasteland, they had surely procured a reader of some form.

Instead, the bot continued to stare at him, blank and motionless, at first, until it moved to tap one of its metal fingers against a plastic placard nailed to the counter. Hanzo frowned, confused, but a quick glance at the sign in question was all he needed to understand.

 

_ Credit not accepted. _

 

“’Fraid we don’t have much use for credit in these parts,” the Omnic went on to elaborate. “All dealings here are done by trade. Bullets and fuel cells are what most folks exchange with.”

But Hanzo kept his palm stubbornly extended, still grimacing at the machine like he might be able to intimidate it. He doubted that was possible – Omnics didn’t feel.

 

That didn’t deter him, however.

 

“I will pay by credit,” he insisted, annoyed at having to speak in full sentences to this  _ thing _ . “I will pay twice the tab for your trouble.”

 

The Omnic continued staring, its systems quietly whirring – strange, Hanzo hadn’t heard them before. Either it was processing harder than it had been moments ago, or the diner had fallen deathly silent. It made him stiffen, both his hands itching to reach back for his bow and arrows. Instead, he remained still, shoulders square and chin proudly tilting as he made his position clear.

 

“Or, I will not pay.”

 

_ That _ seemed to trigger something, as if there was some string of words the Omnic had been waiting to hear before it could respond again. There was a sound of metal parts clicking, and Hanzo noticed with a start that the machine’s human-like hands were rearranging themselves. In just a few short seconds, the synthetic bones and tendons had been reshaped into a pair of pistols.

 

Hanzo felt his entire body tense, like a coiled spring ready to jolt into action. His palm withdrew from the bar counter, but before he had the chance to reach behind himself, the Omnic was speaking again. Incongruent with its present, threatening stance – both pistols had been lifted to point at Hanzo’s chest – it sounded quite pleasant.

 

“Naw, either you’ll be payin’ by trade today, or you’ll be payin’ by blood. Your choice.”

 

The room had indeed gone quiet, but Hanzo didn’t notice over the pounding of blood in his ears as he stared the Omnic down and slowly moved to his feet. One well-aimed arrow to the Omnic’s faceplate was all he needed to decommission it for good, but a bow was of limited use when his opponent was armed and scarcely a half-metre away. That did little to discourage him. Hanzo was nothing if not fearlessly proud, and if this machine wished to incite him into a fight with its threats, he would gladly retaliate.

 

“I choose neither,” he snapped. They were brave words for someone staring down two barrels at nearly point-blank range, but Hanzo felt only irritation and a rush of adrenaline. In a blur of movement, he reached back for his bow with the intention of swinging it down on the Omnic’s extended wrists – a gamble, to be sure, for even if he incapacitated the machine, Hanzo had an entire saloon of criminals that might spring to its aid. But, if nothing else, he had his single-minded determination on his side; Hanzo had absolutely no intention of dying in this godforsaken pit.

  
  


It was hot. Pigs-rollin'-in-shit hot. The kind of hot that left a man's throat feeling like dust and his lashes clumped together from sweat and tears and dust. It wasn't the kind of heat that found anyone sane outside.

 

Luckily for Jesse McCree, the denizens of the wasteland he called his home had a hard time fitting into mold of mentally sound or otherwise capable. That meant there were always a few people milling about whenever he approached the nearest slum-town, and there was always work to do.

 

Sometimes that work was labor - hauling scrap metal in a line-up or sweating it out on a building project after a raid. Sometime that work was travel. No one knew the layout of the land like Jesse McCree, and no one could get a stranger to where they were going as safely as him.

 

There were other things he did - on the side and out of the public eye - but those were fewer and further between, kept under the cover of darkness and worth the price he charged for them.

Unfortunately, opportunities dried up the longer a man stayed in a single place.

 

He'd been travelling for six days, now, nearly out of water and down to his last rations as he came upon the first settlement since he'd finished the last of his business eighty miles south and set out for greener pastures.

 

It didn't look like much, but at least it was cooler here - a town he'd been to before - further north than where he'd started and near enough to the border that people looking for dirty work would come with their pockets lined and their expectations high. He'd either get bored eventually, or he would be recognized and chased out, but here was a good place as any to stay a night or two.

 

There were few people milling around; it was too hot for much work, and even Jesse could feel it under the wide brim of his hat and his many layers, skin prickling with sweat that soaked into heavy fabric and left him grimacing each time he adjusted his satchel on his shoulder. His joints ached, and the metal of his forearm was too warm to the touch, cooling system struggling to keep up with the relentless onslaught of the sun. Luckily for him, his favorite watering hole stood right on the edge of town, close enough that he could just make out the flickering, neon signs that declared it open and bustling with whatever little business it garnered this early in the afternoon.

 

The place wasn't likely to be packed, given the hour, but there were always a few regulars milling about, and a few that Jesse undoubtedly recognized when he stepped inside, door swinging in lazily to part for his arrival and boot-heels clicking on the odd mix of wood and steel flooring. Heads turned his way - some curious, others weary - and a hush fell over those gathered as he swaggered in, tapping along the path from entrance to bar. 

 

Beside him and a few stools to the left sat a stranger, clearly new round these parts. He was handsome, though not particularly charming given the scowl on his features and the sunburn making headway across his forehead and over the bridge of his nose. 

 

From further up north, Jesse reckoned, and didn't think too much further on it. Plenty of men with plenty of reasons came down to where the only law was survival, though few of them were smart enough to tough it out once they made it. 

 

Including, apparently, this one. 

 

_ “How’ll you be payin’ today, sir?” _

 

Jesse was patient enough to wait on his whisky; all he wanted was an afternoon to relax, to kick back and listen to the local gossip and find out who needed what and how much they were willing to pay. Unfortunately, that just didn't seem to be in the cards for him today. The handsome stranger bristled and insisted on credits, and the rustle of agitation from the patrons behind had the hair stood on the back of his neck. 

 

"Now _ ,  _ now." His bullet-purse jangled as he unclipped it from his hip, dropping the heavy sack onto the bar. "I don't want no trouble here, boys. Just a man try'na wet his whistle. How much he owe ya, keep?"

 

Hanzo already had one hand grasping the lower limb of his bow and another reaching back for an arrow when his attention was abruptly stolen away. He froze mid-movement, shocked out of his single-minded determination to strike the Omnic down by a clattering of a change purse and the sound of a man's voice, smooth and smoky, from somewhere near his right. His gaze snapped to the stranger in question. Hanzo wasn't sure what he had been expecting, exactly, but it certainly was not this... This--

 

_ 'Cowboy, _ ' Hanzo's helpfully mind supplied him. He had seen them before, though they were little more than characters from Hollywood films both old and new, men and women wearing those stereotypical wide-brimmed hats and leather boots and speaking in thick, drawling accents that Hanzo admittedly found difficult to follow at times. Surely this was some kind of jest, a costume this man put on for some unfathomable purpose rather than an outfit he wore daily. Perhaps that explained the silence that had overtaken the room, of which Hanzo was only now fully cognizant. He couldn't be the only one who thought the stranger looked absurd.

 

When his initial shock wore off, Hanzo realized he was gaping. He quickly comported his expression into something more fitting: A stern, suspicious grimace. He continued to stare even as the Omnic began speaking again, a series of clicks and whirs alerting him to the fact that its pistols were reshaping into hands again. Hanzo still kept one of his own clutching his bow, just in case, as if expecting this  _ cowboy _ to reach for the revolver strapped to his belt at any moment. 

 

"One bullet for the water," the machine was saying. From nearby, Hanzo could hear a few conversations pick up again. The tension in the bar was beginning to lesson, though Hanzo didn't relax an inch.

 

"Another for the trouble."

 

"Thank ya kindly." Jesse went even so far as to tip his hat, watching the Omnic revert to his casually amicable demeanor with a small grin tugging up the corner of his mouth and nothing to show for the tense moment they'd just collectively experienced. Worse could be dissipated with a friendly smile and a few bullets. 

 

For good measure, he picked four at random out of the bag - a mish-mash assortment of steel and gunpowder that wouldn't be any good for his Peacekeeper - and dropped them on the bar, tying the satchel back to his hip in that same slow, methodical way he was wont to do everything but shoot. "Whisky, neat." He didn't need it watered down with ice, and in a place like this a single cube could cost a man two bullets. 

 

The Omnic was quick about it, and soon Jesse had both his drink and a complimentary glass of water for the handsome stranger, who looked as though he were on a hairpin trigger and about ready to blow at any given moment, fingers still twitching near his  _ bow  _ and scowl quite firmly in place. 

 

"Your face make any other expression, partner? I'm sure if ya tried smilin' a lil, those frown lines would clear right up. Here." He slid the glass across the bar and shrugged out of his outermost layer, dropping his hat down on the bar and getting comfortable with that first, smokey-bitter sip from the chipped cup in his hand. "You're not from around here, are ya? What's a wealthy-lookin' man like you doin' in a place like this?" 

 

The remark was innocent enough, clearly made with the intention of starting conversation and easing away tension rather than riling him. Still, Hanzo bristled, his scowl stubbornly fixed in place. Who did this fool of a man think he was, strolling in (for surely he had just stepped into the saloon -- Hanzo would have already spotted him, in that get-up), and nonchalantly paying for Hanzo's drink? It seemed a suspiciously benevolent act, especially in this viper pit of lowlifes and thugs. Hanzo felt no inclination to trust him, much less to feel grateful for his unsolicited act of 'good will'.

 

However, for all his distrust and agitation, Hanzo supposed a fight was no longer imminent. His hand reluctantly fell away from Storm Bow, though he kept eyeing the cowboy as if anticipating some imminent shift in his laid back demeanor.

 

There wasn't one, bizarrely enough. Hanzo watched, his brow furrowed in puzzlement, as a glass of water was slid in front of him.

 

The question that accompanied it, however, had an unfriendly grimace quickly returning to Hanzo's face. He considered giving the cowboy no answer at all save for his withering silence, but something compelled him to speak.

 

"I am only passing through," Hanzo replied, words clipped and voice gruff. It was a vague answer, nothing this fool would be able to glean anything from. Many people 'passed through' this place, Hanzo was sure. He imagined this cowboy, with his sweat- and dirt-stained clothes, was no different.

 

At least without the hat and red serape, he looked a bit less absurd, though the unkempt beard and whiskers on his unwashed face made him look like a barbarian.

 

' _ Ridiculous,'  _ he concluded, and with a quiet huff, Hanzo looked back down at his drink. He was suspicious of this, too, not for any fear of poisoning, but because it was one more thing he would owe this fool for.

 

Four bullets' worth of debt was bad enough. 

 

"I did not ask you for your help, nor did I require" Hanzo informed him suddenly, curling his hand around the glass but refraining from drinking from it. Instead, he threw the cowboy a sideways glance, his shoulders squaring and chin held high in a subconscious show of pride. "You would do well to mind your own business,  _ cowboy. _ "

 

He hadn't meant for the nickname to slip out, but then, Hanzo was probably not the first person to call him that.

 

"Ain't no cowboys 'round here, partner." If there had been, then maybe it wouldn't be such a desolate, lawless place. Jesse brought the chipped cup back to his mouth and fell into a long, contemplative silence - the kind that felt like a held breath and made the muggy, stifling heat hotter.

 

The cup clicked back down onto the bar, leaving no condensation on the wood nor wetness on Jesse's fingers.

 

"Consider that I did _ myself _ a favor. Ain't no fun drinkin' with a foreign corpse stinking up the place, huh?" The handsome stranger certainly wouldn't of survived the altercation, and Jesse had wanted his drink far more than he'd wanted any fights. There would be plenty of the latter in the the future, near and far.

 

He drank in the insulted silence again, propped up on the bar with his body turned towards the stranger and his eyes scanning the selection of drinks behind the bar tender.

 

Finally, the cup was empty and set down for the last time, little more than a few quickly-drying drops left to evaporate on the bottom.

 

"So you're passin' through, huh? Know where you're goin'?" He still didn't look at the man, gaze trained on the middle distance where dust particulate danced in the thin streams of sunlight streaming from the cracks in the boarded-up window. "Know how to get there? These here parts are dangerous, partner, and your credits won't do ya any good south of the border, though I know plenty a'folks who'll take yer hand for the chip. Shouldn't of shown  _ that _ off, I'll tell ya."

 

_ Then how does he explain that outfit?' _ Hanzo shot a scornful glance at the dirt-streaked cowboy hat that sat between them on the bar. There had to be some sort of joke in all this that Hanzo was missing, a punchline that had gone over his head or was lost somehow in translation. He was tempted to ask, to throw the question like an accusation --  _ 'Why do you dress this way?' _ \-- but the cowboy continued to speak. He wouldn't  _ stop _ speaking, in fact, clearly under the mistaken impression that Hanzo was interested in anything that came out of his mouth. 

 

Hanzo's gaze turned burning when the cowboy mentioned his credit chip -- hypervigilant as he was, that almost sounded like a threat. The barrage of questions certainly did not assuage his suspicion. Why was the cowboy so interested in Hanzo's business? And why did he keep referring to him as a 'partner _ ' _ ?

 

So many questions Hanzo wished to ask, his brow scrunched up with annoyance and puzzlement, but he settled instead on just one of them.

 

"Who  _ are _ you?" 

 

A broad enough inquiry, Hanzo hoped, to perhaps reveal to him why this ridiculous man was so interested in his private affairs.

 

"Name's McCree," he drawled easily, unperturbed by the notion of mentioning his name in a bar where everyone already knew who he was - and what kind of bounty sat on his head. He doubted the foreigner had any clue, though. Few things that happened in the wasteland ever got up beyond the border (besides drugs and illegals, of course, which escaped in droves and were both a very lucrative business).

 

"Consider me a tour guide of sorts. No one knows this land like I do." All the way from the Mexican border to the Mason-Dixon line. Jesse knew the layout of the map better than anyone there. "I can tell you where the next best waterin' hole is, or where they'll take those credits of yours and exchange them for some  _ real _ currency." The whole Wasteland was a hive of black markets and villainy, which could only be exported outside the border with legal tender. Laundering schemes were rampant, and Jesse knew just who to go to to get his hard-earned pay exchanged for easy bullets.

 

"Even better - I can get you where you're goin', without all those unnecessary detours,  _ and _ -" he raised his right hand, metal fingers glinting in the low light, "-  _ I _ even take credit."

 

_ Makkuri.  _ That hardly sounded like a real name, at least as far as Hanzo was concerned, but he supposed it didn't matter much what the cowboy decided to call himself. Nor did Hanzo particularly care.

 

What interested him more was what the cowboy was proposing; loathe though he was to admit it, Hanzo knew he wasn't particularly well-equipped to navigate the desert by himself. Even if he managed to find reliable directions to his chosen destination, and despite the fact that he was more than capable of defending himself against crooks and bandits, just a day spent wandering the scorching expanse of dirt and dust had left him exhausted. It would take many more days to reach Dorado, and Hanzo was not familiar enough with the area to know the best places to camp nor the safest towns along the way to spend the night.

 

To put it simply, he needed a guide. Conveniently, this cowboy claimed to be one of the best around. 

 

Hanzo considered this in silence, looking down at the glass of water still untouched atop the bar counter. After a long, contemplative pause, he lifted the glass to his lips and took a tentative sip.

 

When he set it back down again, Hanzo's attention returned to the man seated beside him.

 

"I am travelling to Dorado," he said, voice clipped and to the point, as was his usual style of doing business. "Name your price."

 

Hanzo sincerely doubted any number the cowboy threw at him would be more than he could afford; he had taken much of his inheritance with him when he had fled Hanamura, and considering the many centuries of affluence and prosperity enjoyed by his family, that sum was impressive to say the least.

 

"What business you got in  _ Dorado _ ?" All of a sudden, his kindness backfired on him, and Jesse was no longer sure just how worth escorting the handsome stranger to his desired destination might be. Certainly, McCree could make his keep without ever setting foot in that hellhole again, but the handsome stranger had said to  _ name his price _ , and Jesse wouldn't actually have to walk into the center of town, now would he?

 

"Man like you don't look like you got a death wish." His cup was empty and the barkeep looked a little too preoccupied with ignoring their conversation, rag polishing over the same spot on the counter like it wasn't obvious he was recording every word. Jesse raised his empty glass and shook it around for good measure, catching the Omnic's empty gaze with his own. "Ain't payin' ya to stand around, partner. Give us another one." The refill came quickly and another bullet hit the table, disappearing into the Omnic's hand faster than a man could blink. 

 

Jesse took a sip. 

 

"Forty-thousand credits, plus the cost of supplies and other expenditures," was what he finally settled on. It was an inflated price, but the man looked like he could pay it, with his delicate silks and decorated weapon. If he could afford to dress well and stick out like a sore thumb, he could afford forty grand. 

  
  


Hanzo had no basis of comparison, so he couldn't be sure if forty-thousand was a reasonable price or bordering on exorbitant. He suspected the latter, and if not for the fact that his pockets ran deep he might have called the cowboy out on this.

 

It was a testament to his life of luxury and wealth that Hanzo did not so much as bat an eye at the notion of spending forty-thousand credits on a guide. The Shimada clan had been very prosperous indeed.

 

With his expression still carefully neutral, Hanzo threw back the rest of his water, then did the same when his glass was promptly refilled. He was unconcerned with drinking it, now that it appeared he would be doing business with this ridiculous man. Hanzo would be sure to include its cost among whatever other 'expenditures' the cowboy decided upon. Honorable men always repaid their debts -- more besides, Hanzo had no desire to owe this man anything, be it money or favors.

 

His only response at first was a thoughtful hum, his expression turning contemplative as he studied the chipped rim of his glass for a few quiet moments. When Hanzo's gaze returned to the cowboy, it was to study him, instead -- but in this he looked far more intent, his stare sharp and calculating in its intensity. Not for the first time, Hanzo was appraising him, trying to look past the more garish aspects of his choice in costume to see what else he could glean from this stranger. He was darkly tanned, no doubt from many long years exposed to the harsh sunlight of the desert. He appeared strong of build, too, clearly well-acquainted to physical labor, his thick-knuckled fingers tipped with unkempt nails and the pads callused. Hanzo didn't fail to note those calluses were thicker on the trigger finger of his right hand -- he used that revolver of his often, no doubt. Judging by the state of his ridiculous get-up, Hanzo was also under the impression that he spent more of his time travelling the desert than he did languishing in any one town. 

 

This all painted a somewhat intriguing picture, of not just a bizarrely-dressed fool of a man, but a wandering gunslinger who was clever enough to survive in this unforgiving climate -- and clever enough to solicit foreigners for his 'services'.

 

_ 'He is a gun for hire.'  _ It was the only logical conclusion, as far as Hanzo was concerned; he seriously doubted there was a single soul in this desert who wasn't involved in some amount of criminal activity. 

 

With this judgement made, the intensity of his stare lessened, and Hanzo finally broke his long silence.

 

"How long would this trek take us?"

  
  


Jesse was used to scrutiny, to eyes picking apart every detail of his physique and casual demeanor in an effort to decide if he was worth the trouble, the money, or the bullets - the kind that actually left a gun and put holes in a man's torso, that is. He knew that stranger's look well, and when it finally moved on from him, back to the glass of water and then the next, he took his own opportunity to eye the handsome stranger over. 

 

The man was built, with strength in his arms and a broadness to his shoulders that spoke more of hours spent in a gym than hours spent slaving away at truly hard labor. His biceps were finely-sculpted, his hands carefully-manicured. He looked more like a peacock, with his slick hair and his overbearing tattoo. Jesse wouldn't of been surprised to find that he didn't even know how to use the bow at his side, though he truly doubted that was for show with the way the stranger had seemed so eager to use it not all that long ago.

 

Jesse sipped his whisky and stared at the cracks and idled in the silence a little longer before finally turning to face the stranger fully. If they were going to be doing business, it was only fair to be polite.

 

"Four weeks, if things go smooth. It's a long trek and you ain't likely to find someone with both a car and fuel around these parts." Plus, walking always seemed to suit Jesse better. There was something about the open sky, about the journey, about the extra cash that he could make if he stretched this out longer than he strictly needed to.

 

The car thing was true, though. Finding someone who had a vehicle, a way to keep it running, and who wouldn't slit your throat was notoriously difficult. Jesse had no reason to risk it when the journey could just as easily be made on foot.

 

He flashed the stranger a grin and stuck one hand out across the bar, expectant and perhaps a little too forward.

 

"What'll I be callin' ya on this little road trip of ours, hm?"

 

Hanzo ignored the question, holding up his palm to signal the other man's silence. His expression had slipped back into a frown that made clear he had just heard something displeasing. 

 

_ Four weeks _ . That was longer than he had estimated, and while Hanzo was willing to admit that his geographical knowledge did not necessarily equate to making accurate predictions of how long a journey by foot would take him, he still thought it sounded far too long. There was no real time pressure, he supposed. The enigmatic invitation that had been sent to him -- inexplicably on one of the burner phones he had acquired while hiding out in South Korea -- had said very little. He was given only coordinates, along with the cryptic promise:  _ Talon can help rebuild the Shimada empire. _

 

An impossible promise, to be sure, but Hanzo had stewed over it for the better part of a month before hunting down a flight to the southern United States. 

 

Of course, there was little chance that message had any merit. Whatever -- or  _ whoever _ \-- Talon was, Hanzo doubted they could mend what he had catastrophically broken.

 

_ And yet _ ... 

 

The possibility, however slight, was something Hanzo couldn't help but desperately cling to. If he was to make this fool's errand, he would prefer to make it quickly.

 

More besides, he would rather not spend an entire month alone in the desert with a stranger, much less one who struck him as  _ chatty. _

 

"An amendment to your price," Hanzo began, still holding up his hand as if to keep the cowboy from interrupting. When he did not, Hanzo folded both arms loosely across his chest and continued speaking, enunciating each word clearly so there would be no confusion. "Forty-thousand will be your base pay, assuming twenty-eight days travel. For every day less this journey takes us, I will award your expediency with an additional ten thousand credits."

 

Testy, wasn't he? Jesse fell quiet when prompted anyway, letting his palm drop back to the bartop while he waited on the man to speak. He took his time with it, too, mulling his thoughts over in his head before saying anything with the type of enunciation that made Jesse feel vaguely stupid, like he was some kinda child that needed to be spoken slowly to.

 

"Ya really do have a suicide wish, don't ya?" he opened his mouth as soon as it seemed that the stranger was finished, drumming his fingers over the dented and scratched wood in a slow, rolling rhythm.

 

"Deal. Ya drive a sweet bargain, partner, but it's a rough trip to take in under twenty-five. I'll leave ya to the vultures if ya can't keep up." The last of the whisky was downed, cup set back on the table as Jesse rose to his feet. "We set out tomorrow mornin', if ya got no more business here. I've got supplies to buy and a real bed to sleep in. Be ready before sunup and meet me by the statue on the east edge of town. Can't miss the thing."

 

He set his hat back on his head and swung his serape over his shoulders, patting his pockets down twice in a move that had been practiced to the point of subconscious repetition.

 

Then, again, he held his hand out.

 

"Do I get a name now, partner, or will I be callin' ya 'handsome' the entire trip?"


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> And they're off! Sort of. Hanzo experiences a bit of culture shock and ends up eating crow.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This account is run and managed by two people: Tea and Fresh.
> 
> We are RP partners, and we're using this platform to unload our (copious) number of RPs.  
> Mostly smut, tbh.
> 
> The POV changes frequently, given the nature of roleplay writing, and if there are any noticeable continuity gaps it's 100% because the rp was abandoned for a few days/weeks before getting picked up again.
> 
> None of these works have been edited, touched up, or polished.

It took a great deal of self-control -- which Hanzo thankfully had in spades -- not to roll his eyes at that last remark. He wasn't sure what the cowboy meant by it, if his aim had been to tease or offend or something else, but regardless, the withering frown Hanzo shot him would surely preclude him from repeating the nickname.

 

His gaze then dropped to the cowboy's proffered hand. For a moment, Hanzo appeared to be considering whether or not he deigned to touch it. Ultimately, however, his staunch belief in good business etiquette won out, and he accepted the handshake. 

 

The other man's hand felt as coarse as it looked, his surprisingly grip strong, and Hanzo felt vaguely annoyed that he couldn't scorn him for having a weak or otherwise unprofessional handshake. His father had always made a point to instruct Hanzo on the minutiae of etiquette. You could tell a lot about the way a man shook hands, he had said.

 

Well, perhaps there were some exceptions to that bit of wisdom...

 

"You may call me--" There was a split-second pause, wherein Hanzo wondered what he should say. He was used to introducing himself by his family name, but that felt somehow wrong, in the face of everything. That, and it was not a name he should be throwing around lightly. There were few in the west who would recognize 'Shimada' and its ties to the Yakuza, but it might be better to exercise caution. 

 

"--Hanzo," he finished curtly, slipping his hand from McCree's a moment later. Then he stood, readjusting his kyudo-gi so that his tattooed and sunburnt shoulders were properly covered, and fixed the cowboy with another sharp, discerning stare.

 

He hesitated with what he was about to say next, injurious to his pride as it was to be asking for  _ more _ assistance.

 

"I-- do not have lodgings here," Hanzo reluctantly confessed, his grimace deepening by the second. "Are there any that deal in credits?"

 

_ Hanzo  _ had a firm handshake and a sharp gaze that left Jesse feeling like he'd just been looked  _ into _ . Not just through, not over, but like the man had stared into his very soul and found it in some way distasteful, if the slight curl of his mouth was anything to go by. 

 

Jesse only hoped his face didn't get stuck that way. 

 

He was grinning at his own thought when the other man dropped his hand, and that seemed to be just about that. They would set out in the morning, with fresh supplies and sleeping rolls and maybe even a tent, for a journey Jesse wasn't keen on making to a place he'd hoped to never set foot into again. For the money, though, he was willing to make the trip, if only because forty thousand credits could get him very far and for very long, even with the absurd exchange rate for bullets. 

 

Righting his hat atop his head, he was ready to make his leave of the saloon for the evening, eager to get his shopping done before the sun set so that he would have a few hours to himself, when Hanzo spoke again, hesitant and sounding unsure if he even wanted to bring up his newest dilemma. 

 

Jesse paused, pretending to think. "Nah, but I can get ya a bed at the place I stay. They're less likely to slit your throat while you're sleepin'. C'mon." With that, he turned towards the exit, boot heels clicking the same way out as they had in. He fully expected that Hanzo would follow, and once he stepped outside, paused on the deck to wait for the man to catch up, squinting against the brightness of the sunlight and the stifling heat of the sand-clouded wind around them. 

 

"You ever been to a place like this?" 

 

The saloon doors creaked when the swung.

 

"S'beautiful, when ya get past the heat. Got flowers that bloom real pretty at night; maybe you'll get lucky and see a few." 

  
  


As Hanzo had anticipated, it was still unbearably hot outside. He grimaced as he stepped out onto the veranda, already missing the cool, filtered air of the saloon. There was a faint breeze now, kicking up clouds of dust and dirt and bringing with it some small amount of relief. Even so, the heat was scorching, and Hanzo felt neither inclined to move nor to speak.

 

McCree, on the other hand, was unflappable, chattering on as was apparently his nature. Hanzo said nothing. He felt no desire to answer any questions that might be bordering on personal. They were unnecessary -- this was  _ business _ , not a budding camaraderie. The remark on desert flowers was met with silence, too, but to this Hanzo could not feign utter disinterest. He shot McCree a quick, curious glance, half-tempted to ask him to elaborate, but unwilling to expend the effort on speaking when the heat was bearing down on him so heavily.

 

Flowers in the desert -- what a peculiar sight that would make. Hanzo had been baffled enough by the few unattractive, parched-looking plants he had seen growing from the sand. It was so ridiculously dry in this place. How could anything hope to blossom?

  
  


But, if the cowboy was to be believed, Hanzo hoped he might see these flowers. He wondered how they might compare to the well-tended gardens of his old home in Hanamura. Surely no desert petal could rival the wisteria in full bloom; Hanzo remembered vividly how their pendulous branches had hung over the koi ponds, decorated with soft pink and violet petals that made the air smell sweetly...

 

The memory brought with it a pang of homesickness that had Hanzo quickly filing it away. He knew better than to reminisce upon such things; it would do him no good to let his mind wander to the past.

 

Save for a quiet grunt of acknowledgement, Hanzo maintained his stoic silence as he stepped out from under the shade of the porch and followed alongside McCree. It was quiet again, at least. Only the cowboy's voice and the jangle of his spurs managed to interrupt that. What a noisy man. Hanzo wondered if he would be this persistent with his efforts at communication for the entirety of their journey. Did he not find value in silence? If that was the case, perhaps Hanzo should _pay_ him for it.

 

He was just musing on the finer details of this possible arrangement when his sharp ears picked up on the sound of the saloon door creaking open some seventy metres behind them. He could hear footsteps -- a few pairs, at least -- thumping down the wooden steps to the diner, growing muffled as they stepped onto the dirt and pavement. Accompanying these sounds was the sudden, inexplicable sense that someone was watching.

 

Hanzo tensed, shooting a furtive glance over his shoulder to confirm his suspicions. There were four men approaching, all of them wearing a similar, appalling combination of studded leather, ripped jeans and gaudy tattoos that made it clear they were members of the same gang. They were moving quickly and with purpose, and Hanzo held no illusions that they were only coincidentally headed in the same direction as himself and McCree.

 

His expression hardened as he looked away again, suddenly picking up his pace so he could effectively cut in front of McCree. The man's taller stature served to hide Hanzo's movements as he grabbed his bow from his back and an arrow from his quiver. He knocked it, but kept his bow held low in front of him, readied but also effectively hidden from sight.

 

"Trouble," he said, quite simply, in case the cowboy was deaf or somehow hadn't yet picked up on that fact from Hanzo's sudden change in behavior. "Four men, following us from the diner."

 

Jesse could talk about nothing at all and treat it like a subject deserving of the utmost elaboration. He liked the sound of his own voice - or at the very least, liked filling the silence that often surrounded him when he was alone on a job or just wandering from town to town in search of his next cold drink and warm bed. Coming across another soul out among the sand and cacti was a rarity; even rarer was coming across someone who would not do him ill. The desert wasn't safe by any stretch of the imagination, and often the danger within it came not from scorpions and rattlers, but from guns looking to make a quick buck by stripping a corpse and leaving it to rot. 

 

A man keeping his own company was safer, in a lot of ways. 

 

Especially when company brought with it more trouble than it was worth. Small groups travelling together had more bullets, or food, or wearable clothes, and were easy targets for gangs and men eager to take a big risk for a big payout. This rang even more true when part of the travelling party came from foreign land. 

 

Jesse heard the creak of the saloon door and the jangle of chain-heavy boots that followed after them, seemingly idle but with clear intent as they grew closer. His pace didn't falter, and the cadence of his steps remained the same, easy one-two on the cracked and water-parched clay. The only indication that he'd noticed at all was a subtle shift of his arm under the heavy fabric of his serape and the nearly-inaudible click as he flicked open his gun holster. 

 

"Easy there, cowboy. They ain't makin' trouble."  _ Yet.  _ "Gonna give it all away if ya keep actin' like a skittish foal." There was no point in panicking about a coupla punks. 

 

" _ Hey! _ " 

 

They were creeping closer, causing ruckus and shouting until Jesse, like some large, lumbering beast, slowed, coming to a stop with Hanzo still hiding in front of him. 

 

" _ Hey, ya deaf or somethin'? _ " 

 

One of the four, with the sleeves of his jacket ripped off to reveal dark-tanned arms and faded tattoos, stopped some moments later, hardly twenty paces away with his goons on either side of him. 

 

"We got a proposition for ya, McCree. How's forty grand up-front sound, huh? Sounds  _ good _ , don't it? Ya won't even have'ta leave town in the morning." 

 

That was the problem with conducting business in public venues, Jesse supposed, tilting his chin just enough to catch a glimpse of the four from the corner of his eye. It was all well and good to have a drink or two while discussing a contract, but it meant that anyone could hear them. 

 

"Didn't think you were invited to a private conversation, boys," he called back, metal fingers glinting as he held them up to Hanzo when the man looked like he might act before it was prudent to do so. 

 

"Yeah, well. Think you'll appreciate our snoopin'. Forty thousand right here, right now, and all we want is that chip in his hand. Easy, right?" 

 

"Easy if the hand didn't need to come with it." 

 

"Do ya really need both, though? He's got another one." 

 

The implication had the corner of his mouth curling up in amusement, though it was short-lived when a gun cocked behind him, the wind carrying the click and kicking up dust around them. 

 

"And what if I don't?" 

 

"Then we'll take it." 

 

Easy as that. 

 

There was a beat of silence - even the breeze seemed to die, grown still and stifling in the moments that followed the threat. Jesse seemed to think it through, until the silence stretched to three and the gang members grew restless, more guns cocking audibly in the background. 

 

" _ Well? _ " 

 

"Can ya tell me what time it is?" His fingers twitched, curling around Peacekeeper while his posture remained at-ease in that same, comfortable slouch from before. 

 

"What? Quit playin', McCree. What's your answer?" 

 

"Can ya _ tell me _ what time it is?" Each word was carefully enunciated the second time around, emphasis on every second syllable that rolled out of his mouth. 

 

" _ It's high noon, ya bas- _ "

 

Four shots rang out, each one striking true right between the eyes, and Jesse's serape hardly had the chance to settle back around his shoulders before he was blowing smoke from his gun and re-holstering it. He tipped his hat back low and watched the bodies crumple to the dirt, wind picking up just enough to offer some relief from the continuous heat. 

 

"We got scorpion weed further down south; really pretty purple this time of year. Might see some when we pass through what's left of Arizona." 

  
  


Hanzo liked to think himself a quick study. He liked to think that his initial impressions of people and situations were generally correct, that his shrewdness and past experiences meant he could determine possible outcomes long before they came to pass. So it baffled him that, when the men had approached, shouting and jeering like the uncouth thugs they were, McCree remained so infuriatingly  _ calm.  _ It was as if he was too dim-witted to realize that they clearly meant harm, that there was little hope that this encounter would end in anything but violence.

 

It left Hanzo feeling suspicious; surely a man who made his living in this place would not be so naive. When the cowboy stopped walking to engage their pursuers in conversation, Hanzo pressed on. He had no intentions of leaving. Rather, the farther back he stood, the better use his bow and arrows would be when this encounter inevitably devolved into fighting.

 

And the farther back he stood, the better use his bow and arrows would be against  _ McCree _ , whose nonchalance had Hanzo bristling with renewed distrust. He didn't doubt for an instant that the man might turn on him, that he was no less an honorless thief than anyone else in this hell-hole.

 

Then came the conversation. McCree spoke in his usual, unhurried drawl. The thugs shouted their so-called business proposition that had Hanzo drawing taut his bowstring and turning around to face them. He was surprised to see that McCree had not yet done the same, that his back was still turned to their pursuers and his head slightly cocked toward them.

 

Perhaps it was because he had no intention to turn around. Perhaps it was because he was considering their offer.

 

_ Perhaps-- _

 

Hanzo lifted his bow, aimed it squarely at the cowboy's chest, and readied himself for what he was now certain would be a five-on-one fight -- well, soon to be  _ four _ -on-one, because there was little chance that McCree would react in time to dodge his arrow. He would surely agree to their deal, for what loyalty did a hired gun have to anyone but the highest bidder? And, when he did, when he finally drew that gun of his and looked across at Hanzo to take aim, that would be the end of him. An arrow to the heart. Quick, efficient. Hanzo never missed his mark. 

 

It was in this manner that Hanzo had predicted, with near-certainty, how things would unfold. He only waited to shoot because he thought it cowardly to attack a man who wasn't even looking at him.

 

In retrospect, he supposed that was a good thing. 

 

McCree never did look up at Hanzo. There was a lull in the conversation where Hanzo was sure that he would, where his arm strained from the effort of keeping his bowstring drawn, where his eyes kept darting down to the hand the cowboy had resting on his revolver like he expected him to draw it at any given moment. 

 

And he did, but he never did look up at Hanzo, and Hanzo -- ever honor-bound and proud -- never did shoot him.

 

It all happened so quickly. Four loud gunshots sounded in quick succession, close enough that Hanzo's ears were left ringing, and startling enough that he nearly loosed his arrow purely by reflex. The silence that followed was brief and disorienting, but in those few seconds of buzzing silence, Hanzo managed to process two things.

 

The first was that McCree's back was to him and that his revolver had been drawn in less time than it had taken Hanzo to blink. The second was that all four thugs were now lying face-first in the dirt, shot dead.

 

That latter fact was one that Hanzo had the most difficulty making sense of. It took him until McCree started speaking again -- slow, relaxed, as if nothing had just happened and Hanzo imagined it all -- that he began to snap out of his apparent daze. His ears weren't ringing as loudly anymore. His bow, however, was still leveled at the cowboy's chest.

 

Hanzo didn't budge an inch. He was staring at McCree, now, looking him over with almost frantic intensity, as if he was trying to figure out what other details he had somehow missed, as if he was trying to re-assess this man that he had so readily dismissed.

 

Meanwhile, McCree was saying something about flowers, as though nothing had happened.

 

Hanzo was reeling.

 

"What-- was  _ that _ ?" He spoke in that same sharp, commanding tone of his, but the way his breath hitched mid-sentence surely betrayed his astonishment.

 

"You gotta be quick round these parts." And Jesse'd had an itchy trigger finger since he'd set foot in town. The corpses were left to be picked over by vultures and birds, though Jesse passed a cursory glance over the cooling bodies just to make sure he'd tapped them all. Once satisfied, he finally turned to face Hanzo once more, taking in the drawn-tight bowstring with that same mild expression he'd been wearing since they'd met. 

 

"That's my Deadeye. Been practicin'. Now put that thing down before ya put a hole somewhere it doesn't belong, partner. We've still got supplies to be gettin'." And Peacekeeper was four bullets shorter than she should have been. Jesse only went to one guy for ammunition - and they were at least an extra two days' walk out of their way. Luckily, he'd stocked up plenty, though with the bandits that liked to roam the dusty wilds and the way that news traveled like fire on a tumbleweed, they'd likely have to take that detour before they made it to their destination. 

 

Jesse righted his hat, then, and popped his holster cover back into place like the last few minutes didn't even happen, ambling his way past Hanzo and into the shade of the nearest balcony, passing windows that had been hastily shut when those inside heard shots ring out. 

 

"The inn's right around this way. We can get a room before it gets dark so we got somewhere to come back to. Never know how quick they'll fill up for the night." Especially with travelers coming and going as they pleased, without any set schedule and nowhere urgent to be. 

 

McCree hadn't been fazed by the arrow leveled with his chest, just one finger twitch away from bringing his life to a swift conclusion. He didn't seem to think Hanzo meant it, that it was a hollow threat at best.

 

He was right. Still, Hanzo found his nonchalance grating -- almost as grating as how  _ impressed  _ he still was. The man was an incredible shot. No wonder he had survived this dust bowl long enough to know it as well as he claimed.

 

It made sense. Hanzo shouldn't feel so shocked. But it bothered him that he had underestimated the cowboy so egregiously; a mistake like that could have easily cost him his life. He would need to be more careful.

 

With some reluctance, Hanzo relaxed his bowstring, returned the arrow to his quiver, and followed after McCree with his bow slung over one shoulder. The shade made the afternoon heat only slightly less unbearable, but McCree was unflappable, still chattering away as though under the mistaken impression that Hanzo was amenable to conversation. The archer remained dour and silent all the while, though his sharp eyes never once left McCree's back as he trailed closely behind. 

 

The inn wasn't far, just a little ways off the main road beside a pre-war gas station. The pumps were old and rusted, clearly no longer functional, but Hanzo could see a fair few people gathered inside the cramped shop. The inn itself was a dingy, dilapidated motel a little farther in, the neon letters above the door long-since destroyed or stolen, leaving only their stained imprint behind on the dusty concrete.  _ Motel _ , it read. Not terribly creative. Even in its prime, this had clearly been far from an upscale establishment.

 

Hanzo struggled not to turn his nose up at the sight. There were scrap parts littered everywhere -- tires and car doors half-buried in the sand, planks of wood and concrete blocks, along with miscellaneous plastic and tin trash that had been carelessly strewn about. He hoped it wasn't as messy inside; sleeping in a tent in the middle of the desert would surely be better than sleeping in  _ refuse _ .

 

But the front office, at least, was in relative order. It was air-conditioned, too, which did wonders to quell Hanzo's ill-temper. He lingered near the door as McCree went ahead to speak with the clerk -- a surprisingly young woman, with darkly tanned skin and brown, almond-shaped eyes. At least not all the business-owners in this area were Omnics, though Hanzo wondered how someone of her age and slim build could possibly be safe working alone like this.

 

Better not to judge by appearances a second time today, though.

 

"'Fraid I've only got the one room available," he overheard the woman saying, in that same, thick drawl that everyone in this desert seemed to speak with. At least Hanzo was starting to have an easier time understanding it. "And it's only got the one cot."

 

"I'll pay extra if ya throw in a couple more blankets and pillows,  _ mija. _ " He'd stayed there often, and had paid more than his fair share for room and board over the years, but that still didn't protect him from the glare that was shot his way in response to the petname. 

 

"How many times must I tell ya, Jesse - I'm gonna charge ya double if you don't stop this nonsense." But she never did, and even the blanket came without an extra mark on the ledger, pulled out from under the concierge desk and plopped on top, along with a frumpy, over-stuffed pillow that Jesse idly picked feathers out of while he waited for her to first fill out the guest book by hand, then turn to a tablet and repeat the process. Something about tradition, he figured, and didn't rush her. It was cool inside, anyway, and they would soon have to brave the late-afternoon heat in order to fetch their supplies. A half hour to rest and kick their feet back wouldn't be remiss. 

 

Soon enough, a key was being placed on top of the pillow, the teeth chipped and the bow worn smooth and shiny from years of men and women rubbing it between their fingers on the short trek up the stairs and to room 12. 

 

"You'll have'ta jiggle the knob a lil. Don't break my doors, McCree." 

 

Jesse grinned and tipped his hat low, collecting his items and jerking his head towards the staircase tucked behind a sad-looking potted plant. 

 

Room 12 wasn't much. Water stains on the ceiling and a window that overlooked the town center, it served its purpose as a roof over a weary head, with a single cot in the center and a plush chair near window. An ashtray sat precariously on the ledge, still filled with cigarette butts from the last person that stayed there, but the bed was neatly-made and the radio in the corner of the room played a pleasant medley, static-y though it was. 

 

At least they spared no expense on air conditioning, which blasted cool air through the room and quickly dried the sweat that had Jesse's hair plastered to his forehead in unruly curls. 

 

"Home sweet home for the night, partner. Won't find a safer place for miles." 

 

Hanzo realized, within about five seconds of stepping into the cramped, mildew-smelling room, that the lack of a second bed was the least of his worries.

 

It wasn't  _ messy _ , at least not in the sense that there was garbage and other assorted junk scattered about the space -- though, no one had emptied the ashtray, and Hanzo seriously doubted that the threadbare mattress and duvet had been washed any time in the recent past. There were a few holes in the drywall, some of which had been shoddily patched over, and a couple dead cockroaches along the baseboards. The far window was mostly taken up by an air-conditioning unit -- a very old one, at that, which continually leaked coolant and left a dark blue stain on the low-pile carpet below.

 

There was an adjoining washroom, at least, but judging by the state of the place, it was probably equally ramshackle. Did these desert-dwellers have no self-respect? Their resources might be meager, but they could surely afford to spend the time making their hovels a bit less unsanitary.

 

During his thorough survey of the room, Hanzo had yet to step in from the threshold. His lip was curled and his nostrils flared in what was evidently disgust, but eventually, grudgingly, he moved inside and closed the door behind him.  

 

"You mentioned purchasing supplies." It was the first thing Hanzo had said since the shoot-out, his self-imposed silence broken only to talk business. "How much will that be? I will pay you now." 

 

As he spoke, Hanzo shrugged off his bow and quiver to give his back a much-needed break. There was no surface in the room he felt inclined to trust, but the chair was perhaps the least suspect, and so Hanzo delicately laid his possessions down atop the armrests. Then, while awaiting McCree's reply, he began removing his sweat-soaked kyudo-gi. The room might be filthy, but Hanzo would do his utmost to make sure  _ he  _ was not.

 

"Dunno. Prices differ, dependin' on who's sellin'." And whoever was selling that day likely had a monopoly on the market. The worth of a thing in the wasteland fluctuated almost as quickly and frequently as the population, and one could never be too sure how long a product would be on the market before it inevitably disappeared never to be seen again. There were some things that Jesse missed somethin' fierce - like that chocolate that he'd bought once, half-melted and sticking to his fingers while he crammed it in his mouth right there in the middle of the marketplace and remembered when things had been  _ sweeter _ . There's been good whisky, too, once or twice, and assorted jerky from an Omnic vendor who couldn't taste a damn thing but clearly knew how to spice smoked strips of beef  _ just right _ .

 

"You gotta stock up while you got the chance. Promise I'll only buy the necessities - and anything ya deem superfluous you can just not pay me for." Hanzo seemed like the kind of guy who could figure that much out, and who wouldn't call a sleeping bag  _ unnecessary  _ just to save a handful of credits. 

 

Jesse had no problems utilizing every available surface in the room. He dropped his hat on the bed and draped his serape over the heating unit - which was rusted and looked like it hadn't been used in decades - then fished a cigar from his pocket with one hand while the other plucked at clasps so that he could ease both his belt and his holster off at the same time. 

 

"Ain't no rush, though. No one's gonna be sellin' 'til the sun starts goin' down." They were in the hottest part of the day, and few people were foolish enough to just go wander outside in search of groceries. 

 

Plus, there was a show happening, and Jesse just got himself a front row seat. 

 

He lit the cigar with a lighter from his pocket, glancing over at Hanzo periodically to watch the man shrug out of his poorly-tied bathrobe. It was pretty, though, and looked to be made of fabric far more expensive than Jesse's own button-up shirt and well-worn hat. 

 

What was underneath, though, was probably worth far more than that scrap of fabric. 

 

Hanzo was well-muscled and heavily tattooed, each movement making the inked dragon on his arm ripple and move like it was actually flying. Jesse watched it, then darted his gaze to the dip between Hanzo's shoulders, then looked away completely under the pretense of dragging the ash tray closer, mouth pursed around his cigar and that first smokey inhale held too long in his lungs. 

 

This answer disappointed Hanzo, as was probably clear by the crease of his brow and the faint moue of his lips when he turned around. He had been hoping to send the cowboy off for supplies so that he could have the room to himself for some time; the lack of privacy was already chafing him, as was his inability to relax in the midst of someone he did not trust. 

 

It was something Hanzo would have to get used to, he realized. They were to spend nearly a month together traversing the desert. Privacy would likely be the least of their concerns.

 

Still, he would have liked to tidy himself and this room in relative peace and silence. 

No matter. Hanzo draped his kyudo-gi over the back of the armchair and continued divesting himself of his clothing and equipment: His gourd, the satchels tied to his waist, the leather glove and metal wrist guard he wore on his right hand. He kept his pants on for now, as well as his knee braces and shoes. While Hanzo had no particular modesty as far as nakedness was concerned, he had a few more matters to take care of before stepping into the bathroom.

 

The first of which was McCree, who had lit up a pungent-smelling cigar that had Hanzo's nose crinkling in disgust.

 

"Must you smoke that in here?" Hanzo voiced the question more as an accusation. It wasn't as though they could open a window, and already the room was rank with the stink of tobacco. At the very least, if the cowboy was going to smoke he could opt for something of a higher grade so that Hanzo would not have to suffer the smell of filthy cigars.

 

Perhaps that was something he could pick up in the market: Expensive cigarettes. Something imported, perhaps, and cut with sweet-smelling herbs. 

 

Hanzo almost craved one, himself, if only to take the edge off.

 

Hanzo didn't seem to understand that the wasteland and whatever town he hailed from were two very, very different places. There was no discerning brand, here, and unless a man rolled his own cigar and made his own paper and somehow managed to grow his own herb, the quality of the products that floated through the scattered market places across the desert ranged from top shelf to, once or twice, literally rolled  _ dirt _ . McCree hadn't known until he'd opened up the box, and by that point the effort to hunt down the fella that had sold it to him wasn't worth the satisfaction of any kind of revenge 

 

"Mhm," he hummed nonchalantly with his mouth still wrapped around the filter, sucking on it until the smoke filled his lungs and made them burn somethin' fierce. There was particulate when he exhaled - burned bits of whatever that probably weren't supposed to be in there to begin with - but Jesse paid them no mind and tapped the ash into the tray, snuffing the tip out carefully some moments later when it looked like the vein on Hanzo's forehead was about to pop. 

 

Jesse didn't want to be a rude host, after all, even if the damage was already done and the smell of smoke hung thickly both in the air and on his tongue. 

 

It would fade, though. If there was one thing they'd managed to get right about this place, it was the air circulation and cooling system. Second to none in the dingy little town. 

 

Jesse left the rest of his cigar loitering on the edge of the tray while he further disrobed, removing his topmost armor and then the shirt he wore underneath with little ceremony. It was soaked through with sweat, and his skin carried imprints of where his armor had dug unceremoniously into it, chafed in a few places and callused in others. 

 

"You ever taken a  _ siesta  _ before, Hanzo?" he asked, setting his chest-plate on the floor and proceeding to drape himself over the bed. "S'good for you. Good for the nerves." 

 

The word was unfamiliar to Hanzo, though there were a number of words McCree had said over the course of the past hour that he did not know the meaning of. Hanzo was beginning to wonder if they even  _ were _ words, and not instead a bunch of nonsense the cowboy had made up to confuse him. At any rate, he did not think that ' _ siesta' _ was English -- and if it was, he had not heard the term before.

 

"No," Hanzo answered succinctly, the crease between his brow smoothed out and his expression shifting from annoyed to inscrutable. Irritation was perhaps the only emotion he did not keep so carefully shuttered, but even it was shown only briefly, reservedly. Hanzo was a private man, and there was very little in the way of personal thoughts and feelings he deigned to share with those he was not close to. 

 

But no one alive held that honor. Not anymore.

 

Hanzo moved around the bed, biting his tongue before he could utter any admonishment about McCree's shoes -- which he was still wearing, even as he lounged atop the mattress, shirtless and sweaty. He supposed the duvet was probably already unclean, but then, why make it worse? Perhaps it was an American habit. Hanzo heard they wore their shoes indoors. That was understandable in a filthy motel, but in one's home? In one's  _ bed _ ?

 

On his way toward the bathroom, Hanzo paused as if waiting for the cowboy to elaborate, to define the word  _ siesta _ as he seemed to have been prepared to do. As he did, his eyes roved none-too-subtly over McCree, though Hanzo's expression betrayed nothing, and his regard was cool, nearly dismissive. McCree was, unsurprisingly, burly in build, a bit soft around the middle but nothing deviating terribly much from average. He was  _ hairy _ , too, and that caught Hanzo's attention more than anything, had his eyes lingering for perhaps a split-second too long before he resolutely looked away again. Hanzo was feeling annoyed once more, though this time the feeling was more self-directed than at another one of the cowboy's perceived flaws or bad habits. 

 

As if to distract himself, and to finish this conversation quickly, Hanzo pressed: "What is a  _ siesta _ ?"

 

"A  _ siesta  _ -" Jesse repeated, shifting both hands behind his head and tearing his gaze away from the pop-corned ceiling to meet Hanzo's eye instead, "- happens during the hottest time of the day, when nothing's gonna get done anyway. It's basically a nap, or, y'know, whatever you want it to be. Everything's closed and everyone relaxes before the evenin', which is when the real party starts." As if on cue, a yawn over took him, teeth flashing white before he hid them against a bicep in some show of propriety. 

 

"You should take one, after your shower. You look like you could use it." He looked like he could use a lot more than a nap, but Jesse at least had the wherewithal to not push his luck with more suggestions beyond that. Instead, he rolled his head back on his forearms and returned to gazing at the ceiling, shoes hitting the floor at the foot of the bed one at a time as he toed them off. 

 

"Won't be many opportunities for a siesta out in the desert, so you'd best make use of it now, while we've got the chance." He wouldn't dare make them walk during the absolute hottest hours, not when dehydration was a very real possibility, but sleeping in the shade wasn't a viable option, either, when on a good day they would still likely run into one or two fellas lookin' to cause trouble near small towns and outposts. 

 

Jesse could already feel the seductive tug of the heat, pulling his eyelids closed and making him feel comfortably heavy all over. He yawned, again, this time making no effort to hide it, and brought one hand down to scratch through his furred stomach, brushing the curls of hair there first one way, then the other. "Dunno if they've got cold water here, by the way. You might wanna hold off on that shower til the temperature drops outside." 

 

"I see," Hanzo said, his tone brusque, as though he intended for this to be a full stop to their brief conversation. He had no interest in taking a  _ siesta _ , as McCree had described it; napping was such a waste of productivity. More besides, Hanzo doubted he would be able to sleep. He felt far to on-edge to relax, regardless of the exhaustion weighing heavily upon his sore and aching body.

 

Instead, he made his way into the bathroom and closed the door behind him, dismissing McCree's advice about the water. A warm shower would be fine. The air-conditioned air would cool Hanzo off quickly enough. And anyway, he wouldn't be able to rest until he felt at least remotely clean.

 

It was a sentiment the cowboy clearly did not share with him, stretched out sweaty and dirty ( _ and hairy,  _ Hanzo's mind unhelpfully reminded him) on the mattress. 

 

_ 'Such a beast.' _ Hanzo clicked his tongue in disapproval, trying to summon a suitable level of annoyance. He couldn't quite seem to. His thoughts had begun to wander in a direction he had not anticipated.

 

_ 'Though, even beasts can be tamed.' _

 

Annoyance came to him, this time, but as before it was self-directed, internalized, then taken out on a cockroach that had scuttled out from under the sink before being promptly squished beneath Hanzo's shoe. He scowled.  _ Filthy _ , as expected. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For anyone curious:
> 
> Fresh wrote for McCree  
> Tea wrote for Hanzo


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> One awkward night later, and, well... We all know where this is going to end up.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This account is run and managed by two people: Tea and Fresh.
> 
> We are RP partners, and we're using this platform to unload our (copious) number of RPs.  
> Mostly smut, tbh.
> 
> The POV changes frequently, given the nature of roleplay writing, and if there are any noticeable continuity gaps it's 100% because the rp was abandoned for a few days/weeks before getting picked up again.
> 
> None of these works have been edited, touched up, or polished.

McCree had been right about the water: It would not turn cold, nor even lukewarm, and Hanzo was shocked to find it was just barely a tolerable enough level of burning for him to remain beneath the spray long enough to wash himself -- and with only one shrink-wrapped bar of pastel-green soap,  at that, which smelled artificial but not altogether unpleasant. The heat eased away some of the tension in his muscles, at least, and when he stepped outside the stall again the air felt blessedly cold against his wet skin.

 

There was exactly one clean-looking towel in the washroom, and while it wasn't quite small enough to be considered a hand towel, it was not large enough for Hanzo to properly wrap around his waist. He gave up, eventually, drying himself off and leaving it slung around his shoulders.

 

Without a tub, it was more difficult to wash his clothing, but Hanzo managed the best he could under the circumstances. He left them all to dry over the side of the shower when he was finished, then spent some time meticulously cleaning sand from the removable metal fittings of his knees and the soles of his shoes. There was little below his knees that still consisted of skin and bone -- the rest was synthetic alloys and circuits, cybernetic enhancements of such high quality that very few would recognize them as such without closer inspection. It looked as though he was simply wearing some kind of sleek armor from the knees down.

 

They were nothing unusual, at any rate. Hanzo had not failed to notice McCree had a prosthetic arm -- though it was integrated far less subtly, from what he could tell. Such was typically the case with the less expensive varieties.

 

When he was finally satisfied and suitably clean -- though his hair was still dripping wet down his neck, and Hanzo was somewhat irate with the lack of any devices to trim his beard -- he stepped back out into the bedroom. McCree was, presumably, still having his  _ siesta _ . Hanzo threw the man only a cursory glance as he padded across the room, unconcerned with his nudity. He had been to many public bathhouses in Japan. While the custom was doubtfully practiced here, Hanzo felt no particular inclination to attempt to cover himself up with the too-small towel.

 

Instead, with his back turned to the bed, he began taking stock of his current supplies. There were several things he would need, in addition to whatever McCree felt was necessary for their expedition. Among those were materials to construct more arrows. He had only twenty in his quiver -- enough to fell twenty bandits, if need be, though after today's experiences Hanzo wondered if that would be enough.

  
  


Jesse didn't sleep. Not that he couldn't of. Four walls and the steady breeze of A/C across his forehead would knock anyone out after a few idle minutes, but the thought of where he was going - and  _ willingly _ , too - and what he might find when he got there kept him tense despite his easy appearance. He couldn't remember the last time he'd set foot in Dorado. What he could remember was his last departure, made hastily under the cover of nightfall and with gunfire trailing him well into the sandy wastes. 

 

Was it really worth returning?

 

For forty thousand dollars - plus some for every day he could shorten the trip by - yes. It wasn't like Jesse couldn't already comfortably retire to some northern town - one of the nice ones, where things were smuggled fresh and actual  _ tourists  _ came to visit - and live the rest of his life without a single cockroach in sight, but there was something thrilling about his job; something he didn't think he could simply give up for the sake of a warm bed and a cool drink. That, and - damn him - but he was  _ curious _ . 

 

What had become of Dorado since he'd left? What did it look like, smell like, feel like? He missed it, in short, and in missing it was willing to risk both his and a stranger's lives to find out how much it had changed in the years he'd been gone. 

 

Maybe that was dumb as shit. Maybe he'd hate it. Maybe he'd be shot on sight. Jesse didn't know, but the part that wanted to far outweighed the reason and logic that dictated he call an early end to this little  _ adventure _ . If Hanzo had business in Dorado, then so be it. It meant that Jesse damn well did too. 

 

He was still in the same position when the pipes stopped gurgling, though now, instead of staring at the dots on the ceiling, he stared at the dots on the insides of his eyes, mouth lightly parted and wide chest rising and falling with each breath. It was comfortable, and Jesse felt no reason to move. Clearly Hanzo wasn't planning on making use of their scant few leisure hours. 

 

The doorknob jiggled when opened, and the hinges creaked, but otherwise it was fairly quiet, broken only by the A/C and the tap of metal on the wood floors. 

 

It was this tap that had Jesse finally cracking open one eye, only to be met with a full moon and long hair still-dripping rivulets of water over well-defined muscles. From this angle, Hanzo nearly looked  _ delicate _ , all bent-over curves and the high arches of his fabricated ankles, which Jesse hadn't realized were fake until that very moment. They were well-made, though he was surprised that Hanzo displayed them for what they were so openly. A man as wealthy as him could surely afford synthetic skin and whatever other myriad of perks existed when money and supplies weren't scarce. 

 

Jesse didn't ask. Didn't dare to, with the view he currently had. 

 

Hanzo had a nice ass. A proper type of handful and tight enough that it would take a good squeeze to have his fingers leaving marks. Jesse liked that about a man - pretty, but not fragile. Hanzo looked like the kind of guy he could throw around a little, break a few bedsprings with. If only he wasn't so tight-lipped and  _ proprietous _ . 

 

He didn't stare long. Getting caught out wasn't the worst thing that had ever happened to Jesse, but he had a feeling it would be disastrous if Hanzo, in particular, were to turn around and catch him staring. 

 

Instead, he let his eye slip closed again, and that was that. 

 

When the sun started to dip below the horizon (a process that could take  _ hours  _ some days, it felt like) Jesse rose, pushing himself off the bed and into his shoes. His skin was still tacky, but that was the default in the desert, and his armor felt heavier now than it had at the start of the day, before he'd taken off. He put each piece on dutifully, however, because at the end of the day it was better to be safe than sorry. 

 

He replaced the bullets in Peacekeeper in silence before holstering her, and it was only when his hat was back atop his head and he was half-way out the door that he paused, tipping his chin back to where Hanzo had made himself seemingly comfortable on the chair. 

 

"You comin', partner?" 

  
  


To Hanzo's surprise -- and relief -- McCree spent the entirety of his  _ siesta _ in blessed silence. Whether he was sleeping or not, Hanzo did not care. What mattered was that he was left alone with his thoughts for the remainder of the afternoon. There was not much to preoccupy himself with. After Hanzo had taken stock of his effects, he spent some time inspecting the room in closer detail, ultimately deciding that any efforts to tidy it would be in vain. At least he would only be here for one night. The functioning air conditioning certainly made the prospect far less unappealing. For the first time since he had arrived in this dust bowl, he was not sweating. 

 

He ran out of tasks to busy himself soon enough, and after redressing in his now-clean clothing (which themselves felt almost luxurious, now that they were no longer caked in sweat and dirt), Hanzo reluctantly moved his bow and quiver aside and sat in the chair. It felt good to be off his feet -- not that they ever tired or ached, but the rest of his body certainly did. He stayed like this for a while, reclining back in the probably filthy and not terribly comfortable armchair, and eventually allowing his eyes to rest for what he intended to be no more than several minutes...

 

Hanzo awoke the moment he heard McCree stirring on the bed. It took him longer to shake the grogginess, and he cursed himself internally for drifting off like that. He must have been asleep for a couple hours, at least, judging by the faded light filtering through the slats of the shuttered window.

 

McCree was at the door by the time Hanzo was able to move to his feet, but once he was, it took him only a few seconds to gather his bow and quiver and pull back his hair in its usual ribbon. Then he was following on McCree's heels, with little more than an affirmative grunt followed by his stony silence.

The trip to the market had gone without any complications. No one else was foolish enough to approach McCree, it seemed, and though there were a number of curious stares being thrown their way, they were for the most part left alone. Hanzo was quiet for much of the proceedings; he was tired, for one, and the cowboy talked plenty enough on his own. He put that mouth of his to good use, at least, haggling prices and asking around for specific supplies and sellers in what was, in Hanzo's opinion, less a market and more a chaotic mess of assorted junk. All business was carried out with bullets, of course, along with whatever else sellers found valuable enough to trade for. It was impossible to keep track of the cost of everything for that reason, and Hanzo couldn't be sure what the going rate was of bullets to credits. He doubted there was one. In any event, it wasn't as though it mattered -- McCree seemed to be good at scoring deals, and Hanzo could afford to repay him for it all tenfold. 

 

It was odd that McCree did not demand any payment upfront, however, that he seemed to implicitly trust that Hanzo would keep his word. 

 

Or perhaps he wasn't worried either way. Perhaps he thought he could take Hanzo's arm, if it came down to it, just as those bandits had threatened outside the bar. 

 

Hanzo wanted to scoff at the mere idea, to dismiss it as impossible, but he had seen how McCree handled that six-shooter of his. He did not doubt that McCree would prove a formidable challenge. He  _ respected  _ the gunslinger's prowess, now that he had witnessed it first-hand, and Hanzo did not dare to underestimate him a second time.

 

Between the two of them, they managed to haul their purchases back to the motel in one trip -- which was important, of course, considering that they would be making much of their journey on foot. McCree had managed to procure a backpack for himself and a shoulder pack that Hanzo could wear alongside his quiver. Both bags were loaded with enough supplies to last them a few days -- more than enough to reach the next town, McCree said. He said a number of other things, too, mostly details about the trip, but Hanzo was only half-listening. Sleep deprivation was wearing on him, and while he maintained his poise, his silence was less a gesture of unfriendliness and more because he did not have the energy to speak.

 

So, by the time they had properly sorted and packed everything back in the motel room, Hanzo was ready to collapse face-first into the musty pillows right then. He didn't care so much about cleanliness, now. He didn't even particularly care that there was only one mattress -- a double bed, at least, but for two grown men it would be difficult to sleep without touching. 

 

Sharing a tent would be no different, Hanzo reminded himself. Better to habituate himself to this now than when they spent their first night in the desert.

 

He sank heavily onto the edge of the bed and began removing the metal braces of his knees, followed then by the slipper-like soles that served as his shoes. Next he removed the ribbon from his hair, then the sash around his hips and his  _ kyudo-gi _ \-- which was sticky from sweat again already. He folded and set everything neatly on the armchair, before, half-undressed and feeling a mix of exhaustion and resignation, Hanzo glanced toward McCree.

 

"I do not suppose that either of us wishes to sleep on the floor." There. Might as well address the elephant in the room directly. 

  
  


Shopping was altogether not an unpleasant experience. Hanzo was quiet the entire time, but he'd set that precedent the moment they met so Jesse didn't think too much about it, talking far more than enough for both of them while they picked their way through the crowded evening market and haggled down prices on the supplies they needed for their trip. Bedrolls and a tent would last them the entire month - hopefully - but perishables they would need to replenish regularly. Jesse purchased enough just to get them to the next town, and then an extra pack or two of jerky, just to keep them going on those long days, and called it good, packing both their satchels right there in the middle of a busy stall. 

 

They got it all back in one comfortable trip, all packed and ready to start off in the morning while it was still chilly outside and the sun had yet to crest over the horizon. 

 

It was just dipping low to west when they stumbled back into the hotel, both aching and sweaty all over. 

 

Jesse couldn't shed his clothes fast enough, dropping his bag on the floor wherever there was room before he tore his hat off and shook his hair out. It was wild, sticking in places to his scalp and his forehead and puffed out in others from the static and the heat. It was  _ charming _ , at any rate, and he still wore a light expression despite the deep muscle aches from another day spent mostly on his feet. 

 

"Not unless you're offerin'." He peeled off his serape, his shirt, his shoes, his pants, down to nearly nothing in moments and leaving everything draped unceremoniously over that same rusty heater to dry out overnight. It wouldn't be the first time he'd shared a bed, though - "Can't remember the last time I had a fella with me  _ just  _ for sleepin', but I'm sure I'll get the hang of it." Flirting with Hanzo was probably an exercise in futility. Certainly, it was ill-advised, but Jesse couldn't keep his tongue from running faster than his thoughts, sometimes. He flashed a grin, wide and dimpled, at the man, then closed the opened window, locking it shut. It wasn't so much a safety thing - if someone wanted to break in, they wouldn't have a difficult time of it regardless of their point of entry - as it was to give Jesse something to do with his hands while he ignored the glare undoubtedly boring between his shoulderblades. 

 

"There's enough room for two on the bed, anyway, and you're gonna want to sleep on a mattress tonight. Trust me, you'll be missin' it come tomorrow." 

  
  


It had been some time since last Hanzo had gotten a proper night's rest; the past few days had been particularly exhausting, and what little sleep he had was often fitful and unsatisfying. His brief afternoon nap had given him enough energy to trudge about the market with McCree for a couple hours, but now that they were back in the air-conditioned motel room, Hanzo wanted little more than to lie down and pass out for several hours.

 

Because of this single-minded desire, along with his overwhelming fatigue, Hanzo was too sedate to care about much else. McCree's flirtation didn't faze him, didn't even manage to annoy him, and the prospect of sleeping beside a man he did not particularly trust was still more appealing than making an argument that one of them ought to sleep on the floor or the armchair. 

 

Hanzo realized that McCree could strangle him in his sleep, if he felt so inclined, but he lacked the capacity to care at the moment. 

 

_ 'Let him try _ \--  _ if he succeeds, perhaps the world would be better off.' _

 

Hanzo quietly scoffed at the thought.  _ Perhaps. _

 

"Nor I," he muttered after a long silence, sounding less like he was replying to McCree's cheeky comment and more as though he was speaking to himself. He took the spare blanket given to them by the clerk and laid it out on what was to be his half of the bed. He might sleep alongside this man, but Hanzo was disinclined to join him under the covers.

  
  


Jesse offered nothing - lewd or otherwise - as a follow-up to Hanzo's murmured statement, disappearing instead into the bathroom for a moment to relieve himself and splash some lukewarm water on his face. He'd take a shower in the morning, while the water still held some chill and would leave him feeling refreshed for the start of their journey. For now it was just the basics - sloshing a handful around his mouth and dragging a wet hand through his hair to help even out the mess. 

 

When he returned to the bedroom, Hanzo was already under the borrowed covers, looking as sullen as he had that morning, though perhaps it was just the lines of exhaustion drawing out his face and putting fine wrinkles in between his eyes. Jesse wasn't sure - couldn't rightly make a call on a perfect stranger - but he was kind enough to shut the lights off and silently slip under the covers on his own side, pulling them up to just above his waist and twisting until his back was to the other man. 

 

It did not stay that way for long. 

 

Jesse was an early riser by nature. It was necessary, living the way he did, and he could be up and about long before the sun even without an alarm to wake up to. It was by the good graces of his own internal clock that he discovered he had somehow drifted over to Hanzo in the night, tucked in against his back with a cheek pillowed on the soft blue of stylized clouds. It was enough for a brief startle, though Jesse made every effort to lay perfectly still, and only rolled away when it was clear he wouldn't make a sudden move, shifting onto his side, then up and out of bed and into the bathroom to start his day. 

  
  


Two days into their expedition, and Hanzo was beginning to see the value in  _ siestas _ . When the sun was at its peak between noon and well into the early evening, there was no point in attempting to navigate the scorching desert that, without any trees to speak of, offered no shelter from the heat. Travel was kept exclusively to the early morning and evening hours, when the temperature was low enough to nearly be tolerable. They dipped lower still into the night, so much so that Hanzo was shocked to find, on their third night camping beneath the crescent moon, the cold had numbed the tips of his fingers and had him nearly shivering as he helped set up the tent.

 

They made a fire that night. Well,  _ McCree  _ made a fire while Hanzo sat by and watched. He had never learned any such 'survival skills', having no use for them in his hyper-industrialized homeland where there was little wilderness to speak of. McCree, meanwhile, was clearly practiced. Hanzo was impressed at how easy he made it all look, at how quickly he had a fire roaring without the use of any fuel. He would not be surprised if McCree managed just fine even in the absence of a box of matches or butane lighter, though thankfully they had found both during their supply run.

 

McCree was effective, in any event. Hanzo had to give him that.

 

He shuffled closer to the edge of the fire pit as it blazed to life, holding out his palms in hopes of thawing his fingers. It was a shock to his system, going from overheated to freezing cold, and perhaps it was this rapid change in temperature that had left Hanzo so sensitive to the night's chill. The thin, silky fabric of his  _ kyudo-gi _ offered little in the way of warmth, which, while a blessing during the afternoon, had Hanzo determinedly suppressing shivers and crowding close to the flames. How he wished he had tea leaves; he should have thought to look for some when they were still in town. Next time, perhaps.

 

"This is normal?" Hanzo asked, voice blessedly level despite the reflexive trembles that he kept struggling to hide. "It did not feel so cold the past two nights."

 

Night was cold. Not terribly, Jesse would say, though he had the benefit of thick clothes and a warm bedroll while Hanzo had only his silky-soft (Jesse had touched it, once or twice, just to feel the way it slipped between his fingers like water) bathrobe to work with. It was no surprise that he was having a hard time adjusting to the cooler evening weather, especially when Jesse had pushed them that night, in terms of mileage. The sun had already started to dip below the horizon when they stopped, and it was completely dark before he managed to light their modest campfire, leaving the wind to nip at exposed bits of skin and chill them both until he'd managed to coax a flame to life.

 

"Yeah - we've also set up camp earlier the past couple days." Now that they had a fire going, he was bound to get warmed up pretty fast. Just to be sure, though, Jesse peeled off his serape, draping it instead over Hanzo's hunched shoulders on his way to their tent.

 

Inside were their sleeping rolls and satchels, his own opened and half-spilling its contents. A pan, four raw potatoes, a can of beans and some jerky was what he fished out, returning to the fire to start them a simple meal for the evening.

 

"It's always nicest out here at night. Gets mighty cold sometimes, but ain't nothin' that beats the view." The stars and crescent moon shone brightly, nearly glowing against a velvet backdrop while in the distance cliffs and steppes painted dark silhouettes along the horizon.

 

Jesse flopped down beside Hanzo to watch the passage of time, beans on the fire and potatoes buried in some foil in among the embers. They would cook up nice, he knew because he'd done it a thousand times before, and would taste delicious after a day spent chewing on little more than a few pieces of dried meat. He dug around in the jerky bag and popped another one in his mouth, thoughtful and quiet while shooting stars streaked by over them, then reached down to his hip, the rattle and slosh drawing attention to the flask he kept there.

 

"Want some? Will warm you right quick."

  
  


If he weren't so damned  _ cold _ , Hanzo would have shrugged the blanket (that wasn't the word, but Hanzo hadn't any clue what else to call it) from his shoulders and tossed it back at McCree. He should feel indignant about it, like it was some low blow to his pride to be doted on in any way, but ultimately he couldn't bring himself to. Instead, he acted simply as though he had not noticed, continuing to stare quietly into the fire as McCree answered him. 

 

He was right, at least, about the view. Hanzo had never seen such a beautiful sky scape in person before. The light pollution in Hanamura had eclipsed the stars even on cloudless nights. Here, there were no such lights to hide the constellations from view, and they twinkled brightly above in the pitch black sky. Hanzo quite appreciated the silence, too -- aside from McCree's constant attempts to fill it (which Hanzo was becoming more and more accustomed to, to the point of which it no longer annoyed him), the desert was always quiet. There were the cicadas, of course, and at night Hanzo heard the occasional animal. The coyotes were strangest of all, with their high-pitched wailing. Hanzo had startled the first time he had heard them, and was both embarrassed and chagrined when McCree took notice.

 

If not for the heat, Hanzo thought he might like this place far better than he had initially presumed. The near-solitude was a pleasant change of pace, and certainly something he could get used to.

 

The climate, on the other hand...

 

Hanzo's eyes darted toward the flask at McCree's hip, trying not to look too intrigued.

 

"What is it?" Alcohol, presumably, but Hanzo wouldn't mind knowing what kind before he considered McCree's offer.

 

The fire cast an orange glow and stretched the shadows around them, casting a circle of warmth that offered very little in the ways of true protection but ultimately _ felt _ safe, like nothing could touch them so long as they were caught in its light. Jesse knew this to be the furthest thing from true, of course. If someone was looking to attack them in the night, they had only to follow the flicker of yellow in the distance to know there were unsuspecting travelers nearby, and starving animals rarely cared for the repercussions of invading a campsite. Nevertheless, Jesse was at ease while he unscrewed the lid to his flask, pausing with the funnel near his lips before he tossed his head back and took a drink.

 

"Whisky. Eighty proof." Splitting the whole thing would knock them both on their asses for at least the whole next day, but there wasn't nothing in the rules that said they couldn't get pleasantly warm. The nights were long and they still had a ways to go until the next town.

 

"Burns real smooth on the way down. Here." Jesse held the flask out, waiting until it was plucked daintily from his outstretched fingers before he reached into a pocket on his sash, taking a hal-smoked cigar out and lighting up without much preamble.

 

"Used to live in Dorado, you know. Ain't been back in a decade," if not more, "Gonna me interesting to see how it's changed."

  
  


Whiskey was not Hanzo's usual choice of poison -- he preferred a fine wine to a strong liquor any day -- but it wasn't as though he had any choice in the matter, and the promise of warming up and finding sleep more easily tonight was too tempting to pass up. So, he took the proffered flask, gave it a cursory sniff, then threw back a generous swig.

 

McCree was right -- it _ did _ burn on the way down, far more than Hanzo had anticipated. He failed to school his expression, grimacing as he swallowed. The taste wasn't altogether terrible, at least, and it left a pleasant warmth in his throat and stomach that was already helping soothe away some of the cold.

 

Beside him, he heard the click of a lighter. The stench of one of McCree's cigars soon permeated the air, though there was enough of a faint breeze to carry it away, and by now Hanzo was more or less used to the smell. He was still not fond of McCree's dirty habit, but he supposed there were worse vices for a man to have.

 

Hanzo thusly refrained from commenting, instead watching the fire and considering McCree's words in thoughtful silence. He took another, smaller sip at the flask before passing it back, breaking his self-imposed quiet as he did.

 

"What was it like?" There was perhaps no point in asking this, Hanzo realized. A lot could change in a decade. Still, he supposed he was curious for reasons that were not strictly business; something about the thought of McCree ten years younger was intriguing. What had  _ he  _ been like, Hanzo wondered. 

  
  


"Beautiful." Jesse opted not to comment on the face Hanzo made. Not everyone could stomach the taste of strong whisky, but anyone would be a fool to turn the offer down when it was extended to him on a cold night. Jesse didn't want to give Hanzo a reason to stop taking sips; he'd noticed that the man guarded his pride very carefully, often to the detriment of himself.

 

Instead, he smoked his cigar and watched the fire, letting the heat slowly warm his skin while the drink did the same for his bones. Eventually the flask was handed back, and he took another sip before responding, looking faraway and somber.

 

"Beautiful." Strung up in lights year-round, it was the only town in the wasteland that boasted any sort of _ quality _ . Deadlock had kept a tight leash on it, at the time, and for a while Dorado had even prospered, despite the seedy underbelly and continued blind eye turned by the powers that be on the deaths of families that did not pay protection taxes.

"Dangerous. I would not advise purchasing property there." He took another drink, longer this time for little more reason than to shut himself up, then passed the flask back over. "I'm sure it's changed now, gotten worse. I miss it."

 

_ Beautiful but dangerous _ . This could be said about about nearly everything in the desert, Hanzo mused. There was nowhere in this dustbowl that could be considered safe, not when it had no form of law and order to speak of because the ruling criminal rings were little more than petty thugs. But it  _ was  _ very beautiful in its own, alien way, and the endless empty miles were serene, a welcome reprieve from the claustrophobic feeling Hanzo sometimes had while living in Hanamura. 

 

He considered all this in silence; Hanzo always had been the introspective type. That, and the whiskey was starting to make his thoughts a bit fuzzy around the edges.

 

Nonetheless, Hanzo accepted the flask when it was handed to him and wasted no time throwing back another, measured swig. He knew how much he could drink at once without grimacing.

 

"I am not planning to stay there," Hanzo replied finally, still staring intently at the fire, though he was beginning to absently toy with the flask in his hands like something was agitating him. He took another pull from it, then resumed his distracted fidgeting. "I am only there to meet with someone. I intend to return home afterward."

 

_ Home _ . How long had it been since last Hanzo had stepped foot in Hanamura, let alone Shimada castle? Nearly a decade, at least. Perhaps, even, he had fled Hanamura the same time that a younger McCree had left Dorado. That would certainly be an interesting coincidence...

 

"I have not been there in some time," Hanzo murmured, the words slipping from his mouth before he even realized he was speaking. Seldom did Hanzo voice his thoughts aloud, particularly around McCree.

 

"The desert grows on ya," Jesse said, cryptic, and took the flask back for another healthy swallow. He'd be feeling it soon, but for now there was nothing but the pleasant buzz of cicadas in the distance and the usual looseness of his tongue, which ran whether or not he wanted it to and did so double-time with company as quiet as Hanzo's. 

 

"Must've been pretty, the place where ya come from, if it gave the world somethin' like you." Because Hanzo was exactly that. Pretty, his skin unmarred by freckles or spots due to years spent out in the scorching sun. He had a soft-lookin' mouth - the kind a man could spend days kissin' - and sure hands that looked like they were good for more than nocking that bow of his. Jesse hadn't ever seen him use it, yet, but clearly the man knew what he was doing with it, the way he treated the thing. It was like an extension of himself, each time he pulled it out at the sound of a distant howl or the roar of an engine that could have been miles or meters away. 

 

He hoped he'd get the chance to watch that bow in action, at some point, and handed the flask back to go check on their dinner, coming back with beans simmering and potatoes cooked well-through. 

 

"Ain't got much in the way of plates." But Hanzo already knew that, after the past two days. Two spoons and the pot shared between them was their only option, potatoes half-unwrapped and left to cool on the hard ground while Jesse stirred, then took a bite. 

 

"What's it like, where you're from?" 

 

Hanzo could not quite discern if McCree's comment was meant to mock him; it sounded genuine, more like he was _ flirting  _ than poking fun. Either way, Hanzo felt as though he should find the comment annoying, but he couldn't seem to muster the appropriate amount of irritation. Perhaps that was due to the whiskey. Hanzo tended to be a particularly relaxed drunk the few times he imbibed.

 

Alternatively -- or  _ consequently  _ \-- it might be because he did not find McCree altogether unattractive, his penchant for dressing like a cowboy aside. Could Hanzo really be blamed for appreciating flattery from a handsome man? Surely not.

 

Hanzo's expression remained unchanged as he contemplated this, though there was a faint pink flush beginning to rise high on his cheeks that was mostly an effect of the alcohol. Quiet and pensive, Hanzo occupied himself by taking another swig of the flask when it was passed back to him, absently noting that he couldn't recall when he had last handed it to McCree, or how many times they had exchanged it between them at this point. Hanzo was starting to feel a bit dizzy, but pleasantly so. This topic of conversation was perhaps the only thing barring him from a relatively content mood.

 

"It is beautiful there," he murmured, after a long, thoughtful pause. There was no hiding the wistfulness in his voice, nor the touch of melancholy. "Particularly in springtime, when the cherry blossoms are in bloom."

 

It was always the same image that came to Hanzo's mind, when he reminisced of Hanamura: Pink petals indolently drifting in the breeze. And that memory was always interrupted, juxtaposed by the gruesome picture of Genji, pale and bloody and broken and clinging desperately to the hem of Hanzo's  _ kyudo-gi, _ pleading his name again and again as though there is anything that can be done, as though he is not already as good as dead. 

 

Hanzo took another large gulp of whiskey and relished the way it burned. He did not wish to ruminate. He spent enough of his time trying to wake from that nightmare -- a decade of his life, at least, and always to no avail. What was done was done, and Hanzo would forever bear the burden of his guilt.

 

Best to change the topic, then.

 

"You are a good shot," he remarked, still staring into the fire and clutching the flask as though prepared to take another drink. He felt he needed it, after that detour in thought. "The other day, with those men from the saloon -- where did  you learn how to do that?"

 

The question made him pause, had him looking over at Hanzo out of the corner of his eye with a frown tugging down his mouth. He'd never had a great poker face, though staring his travel partner down like Hanzo had just insulted his grandmother was probably overkill. Jesse glanced away, at length, and in an uncharacteristic silence stared down at the fire, his portion of their meal sitting like lead in his gut.

 

"A friend." He didn't elaborate beyond that, didn't tell Hanzo of the years spent honing his craft under Reyes' watchful eye and snapping reprimands, or the nights they would spend sat at s bar and splitting drinks. He didn't mention how young he'd been, how lost. How Deadlock, and then Blackwatch, had helped to shape him into who he was now, and how without them and without Reyes he would very likely be dead.

 

Jesse held his hand out for the flask and took a hearty swallow - enough to make even his throat burn - like that would help him forget the way Gabe's blood had felt on his hands or the way Peacekeeper had rung out that night, the shots still echoing in his ears.

 

"When I was young. Not a technique to be used often, but it's saved my skin more than once."

 

There wasn't much left at the bottom of the flask, but Jesse offered the last of it to Hanzo anyway, feeling that warmth settled in his bones and the comfortable buzz of intoxication keep the memories at bay.

 

The gesture was so automatic now --  _ take the flask, drink  _ \-- that Hanzo didn't even register that he was repeating it as the whiskey was handed back to him. Only when he realized that he had emptied the flask did it occur to him that he had perhaps had more than his fill. His head was buzzing louder than the daytime cicadas, and his body felt heavy, uncoordinated -- he was sure if he tried to stand, he would stumble. It was a good thing, then, that Hanzo had no intention of moving. He was content by the fire. Along with the whiskey, it had warmed him down to his very core, and he thought he might like to stay here for the rest of the night just enjoying his muffled, near-absence of thought and the pleasant, leaden heat coursing through him. 

 

But as drunk as he most certainly was, Hanzo was still perceptive. He could tell that the change in conversation had made McCree uncomfortable. He felt it in the way the man tensed, heard it in his evasive response. Something must have happened with this  _ friend _ to trouble McCree so. Even the cowboy had a dark history, it seemed.

 

Intriguing though this was, Hanzo felt no desire to pry. He hummed as indication that he had heard all of this, set the flask down between them, and finally broke eye contact with the fire to throw McCree a curious side glance. He had a somber look about him, all hard lines and deep shadows in the firelight that aged him. Hanzo wondered how old he was; probably no older than he, though he imagined McCree might be a few years his junior owing to the lack of grey hair. He considered asking, but found himself quickly sidetracked by another burning question.

 

"Why do you dress like that?" He had been wondering that since first setting eyes on McCree, and thanks to the whiskey, Hanzo was no longer feeling so guarded about voicing his curiosity. 

 

"That hat, this--" he tried and failed to find the word as he gestured to the fabric still wrapped around his shoulders, "-- _ blanket _ . Those spurs on your boots. Do you even ride a horse?"

 

There were no more horses in America, as far as Hanzo was aware. They had been culled at least a century ago, and those that remained were mostly wiped out by the war. He couldn't imagine any other purpose for the spurs. They were loud. Unnecessary. Like most of McCree's get-up -- and his personality, for that matter.

 

Rather than finding any of this grating, however, Hanzo was beginning to see the humor in it all. McCree was such a strange, ridiculous man, but for all his peculiarities, he had his merits. His sharpshooting skills, for one. And he was handsome, beneath the brim of that silly cowboy hat. 

 

Jesse knew he should've found that particular line of questioning offensive. Somewhere, in the back of his head, he probably did, but he was too pleasantly drunk to really make much of it beyond a frown that looked more like a pout, fat bottom lip pushed out and eyes wide. "You're one t'talk 'bout dressin' up." There was a slur to his voice, words running into each other back-to-front like Jesse had forgot how to pause between each one, but his honeyed cadence stayed the same, slow and unhurried like the tilt of his head and the appraising look he passed from Hanzo's feet to the top of his head.

 

"What's with the  _ bathrobe _ , partner?" It looked silky-soft and far too tempting not to touch, though Jesse refrained for fear of the fragile fabric tearing if he so much as breathed on it wrong. 

 

He didn't, however, resist the temptation to poke Hanzo's bared shoulder, his finger leaving a bright, white imprint on the red-burned skin. "Doesn't do ya much good out here. Mine's at least got a purpose."  _ Jesse  _ didn't have a sunburn, at any rate, even if his get-up was a little overkill even by wasteland standards. It looked good and did what it was supposed to, despite the dark tan that he sported and the weathering of his skin. 

  
  


The touch of McCree's skin -- cool, but coarse against his sensitive sun-burnt shoulder -- caught Hanzo by surprise, and stung more than he anticipated even with the numbing effect of the alcohol. With a grunt, Hanzo swatted at the offending hand and shot McCree an accompanying scowl, though it was halfhearted, his expression more a petulant moue than anything. The comment regarding his choice of attire didn't annoy him as much as it ought to, either, though it did mildly irk him that McCree had neglected to provide him with a real answer.

 

"It is a  _ gi _ ," Hanzo corrected him, not slurring his words quite so much as McCree, though his accent had noticeably thickened. "And I wear it because it allows me more freedom of movement when I wield my bow."

 

There -- a reasonable answer. It would only be fair that McCree gave him one in return, though Hanzo doubted he would without some prompting.

 

He thought on it for a moment. Then, emboldened by the alcohol and feeling considerably more playful than usual, Hanzo went with the first impulse that came to mind. He swiped McCree's hat in one lightning-quick movement, then curiously turned it over in his hands as though inspecting the craftsmanship. 

 

"What about this?" Hanzo peered up at McCree, one corner of his mouth twitching into something resembling a teasing smirk. "Does your cowboy hat help you to aim better?"

 

"A  _ gi _ ," Jesse echoed, mouth curling into a grin. "Look like expensive pyjamas t'me." And definitely not something to be worn in the middle of the desert unless a fella wanted to spend the rest of his life peeling flakes of skin off his bare shoulders and  _ ample  _ chest. It was good to know, at least, that Hanzo wielded that bow of his with enough proficiency to warrant a specialized outfit, even if Jesse had yet to see him so much as shoot off an arrow at a passing rodent. 

 

He was about to ask - maybe offer up a little wager to see which one of them was a better shot - but his hat was suddenly gone, off his head and leaving his wild curls to whip around his face from an errant gust of wind. 

 

"Hey!" _ As a matter of fact _ \- "Damn well does." Jesse barked out a laugh, leaning over - way too close, he could feel the warmth of Hanzo's skin against his beard - and plucking the wide-brimmed hat back from his fingers. "You be careful with this, partner. It's very important. Helps me not hafta squint, since I can't always shoot with my back to the sun, yeah?" Even with his hat back in his possession, Jesse didn't make any large effort to move. If anything, he shimmied closer until their knees knocked, coming to a stop only once he could comfortably drape an arm around Hanzo's shoulders. He didn't - but he was sorely tempted, because Hanzo looked dashing and because it would have been a better alternative to the  _ other  _ things Jesse was sorely tempted to do. 

 

Like catch that teasing grin between his teeth. 

 

Instead, he plopped the hat on Hanzo's head, pulling it down with a bark of a laugh, and effectively broke whatever tension - real or imaginary - he might've felt just moments prior by tugging the brim over Hanzo's eyes. "Just like that. Y'know, we might have'ta get ya one, in the next town. It'll keep your face from lookin' like someone slapped ya, at least." 

 

McCree had moved in closer, far closer than what Hanzo would consider acceptable or decent were he in a more sober state. He could nearly feel the cowboy's beard scratching against his cheek as he leaned in to snatch back his hat, but even once McCree had done so, he did not appear ready to move away once more. Their knees were pressed together, and Hanzo could feel the other man's body heat seeping into his side. It was nearly enough to entice him into shuffling closer still -- for the sake of fending away the night's chill, of course.

 

Thankfully, it was not a temptation Hanzo had to grapple with for very long. He was distracted soon enough by a momentary blindness that his sluggish, inebriated mind took a second to make sense of. And once he realized that it was McCree's hat blocking his sight, Hanzo couldn't muster the appropriate level of dismay. His thoughts turned instead to the fact that it was too big for him, that this meant that McCree must have a large head.

 

There was something particularly amusing about this realization. So much so that Hanzo couldn't help but chuckle, the sound gruff and quiet, as though his vocal cords were not used to producing laughter.

 

"Oh? You intend to make a cowboy out of me, then?" Because that was what McCree was, clearly, no matter what he said to the contrary. And rather than find this particular eccentricity of his irksome, as Hanzo typically did while sober, he was finding it now almost comical. McCree was an excellent shot, but also a fool. He was handsome, but his choice in clothing was absurd. Hanzo was finally able to see the humour in these contradictions, and when he lifted up the brim of his hat so that he could glance across at the cowboy, it was with an almost impish grin.

 

"Perhaps the aesthetic will grow on me."

 

"Makin' a cowboy outta you, not so much, but maybe we could get ya gussied up proper, so you can make it Dorado before the coyotes smell what's burnin'." 

 

Jesse liked that smile. It was worn, and tired, and looked like it was used far too rarely, the edges of it dropping even as Hanzo barked out a stale-sounding laugh. In his drunken state (and hey, maybe in his sober one, too) Jesse wanted to hear it again, wanted to memorize that impish look and the crows' feet at the corners of his eyes that disappeared when his expression returned to neutral. 

 

Maybe it was the whisky, or the desert, or the fact that they had a month ahead of them with nothing but each other's company. Either way, Jesse was feelin' something warm that wasn't liquor. 

 

"You'd look charmin' in a pair of spurs, I tell ya." He took his hat back right off Hanzo's head, grinning wide at the static mess of hair that was left behind, then sat it back upon his own head, briefly lamenting the fact that they were out of whisky. It left his hands with nothing to do and his mind nowhere to wander besides towards the man pressed up against him, all muscle and straight-laced composure. Jesse wondered what it would take to make that crack, more than the small moments of drunken mirth he'd been privy to already. 

 

"But maybe the bathrobe's more your style, hm?"

 

" _ Gi _ ," Hanzo corrected him a second time, though he couldn't muster an appropriate level of irritation and so sounded only faintly exasperated. He was too relaxed to feel annoyed. Now that the cold had finally left his body, leaving in its wake a pleasant, balmy warmth that settled low in his stomach, he was was placid and content. He could easily fall asleep like this, leaning against McCree's shoulder, kept warm by the other man's body heat and the crackling fire, with the stars twinkling brightly in the velvet-black sky above. 

 

Hanzo realized only once his chin hit his chest that he had begun to doze off, though it was a few moments longer before he took notice of the way he had begun slumping against McCree. Fatigue and inebriation had made it difficult for him to stay upright, it seemed, and the cowboy was so ridiculously  _ warm _ that Hanzo did not feel particularly inclined to stop leaning on him once he started to. Not even the stench of his cigar was off-putting, any more, especially not when it was off-set by the smell of their campfire and the (surprisingly pleasant) fragrance of smoke and pine that clung to McCree's blanket. 

 

Tugging the fabric tighter around his shoulders, Hanzo reached for one of the spoons. He had yet to take a bite of dinner, after all. That might explain why the alcohol had hit him so hard.

 

"Sunscreen would be more effective." he remarked with a wry smile. "Perhaps we could find some?"

 

Jesse was very, very careful to stay very, very still when he felt Hanzo's weight lean more heavily against him, the man dropping off with his shoulders hunched and his cheek pillowed against Jesse's shoulder. It was warm, and if Jesse weren't currently reveling in the simple contact, he might've thought a fool of himself for how much he  _ enjoyed  _ it. It was dumb, honest-to-goodness, but he couldn't remember the last time someone had sat beside him with the whole length of their thigh against his own and their head resting against him. He just smoked, and sat still, and hoped that Hanzo wouldn't move any time soon. 

 

That seemed to be the case, at any rate, when minutes passed and Hanzo dragged himself out of his light doze only to reach for a spoon, and at that rate Jesse was damned if he didn't make some move, carefully easing an arm around those broad shoulders and keeping it draped across the serape. 

 

"Not without a lot of prayers and a little bit of luck, partner. Sunscreen's hard to come by around these parts." It was a hot commodity, and not even remotely cheap, though Jesse supposed price wasn't a concern for the other man. "We can look on our next supply run if ya want." 

 

It took Hanzo an almost comically long time to figure out what the weight around his shoulders was, and even with this realization, it took him longer still to decide what to make of it. The whiskey had been strong -- stronger than he had bargained for, in all honesty, because he couldn't recall the last time he was this out of sorts after drinking. If not for the fact that McCree had sipped from the same flask, Hanzo might have suspected him of spiking it.

 

But, no, he was just very, very drunk, and McCree happened to be pleasantly warm to the point where Hanzo felt disinclined to shrug away the arm around his shoulders. He didn't have think anything of it if he didn't want to. They were both inebriated. If either of them remembered this odd bit of intimacy in the morning, they didn't have to talk about it. 

 

Hanzo wasn't too wrapped up in those concerns at the moment, anyway. He was primarily focused on shoveling a few bites of food into his mouth as McCree spoke and then -- still chewing -- humming as a way of acknowledgment. Sunscreen and tea would be at the top of their supplies list when they reached town; perhaps they ought to find some vegetables other than potatoes, too, though truth be told Hanzo didn't find them half-bad. That might just be a consequence of the alcohol and his empty stomach, though.

 

Between bites of potato and beans, Hanzo couldn't help but make idle conversation. He was curious, and his tongue felt loose from the whiskey.

 

"You say you have spent your life in this desert," Hanzo began, having to pause to swallow another mouthful of food. Drunk or not, he would not forget his etiquette and speak while he was chewing. "How many years has that been, hm?"

 

Hanzo had expensive tastes - far more expensive than the wasteland could offer him, at any rate - but Jesse would let him figure that out himself once they reached the next outpost, and the next one, and the one after that. Tea and sunscreen and freshly-picked greens were scarcer than diamonds, out in the desert, because diamonds served no reasonable purpose when every day was a fight to make it to sundown in one piece. 

 

He just enjoyed the moment, the stars and the fire and the solid weight against his side that belonged to a man who wasn't paying him to do this (well, he  _ was _ , but not this, particular,  _ specific  _ thing). It felt too nice to ruin with anything more than lighthearted conversation and the occasional bite of dinner. 

 

Unlike Hanzo, Jesse had no issues when it came to talking with his mouth full, though he at least had the decency to cover his mouth, chewing through a bite of potato in between his words. "A proper lady doesn't just share information like  _ that _ , partner. How old would ya say I am?" He swallowed, then dropped his hand to show off his grin, the corners of his eyes crinkling in amusement and deep dimples showing off the slightly-crooked whiteness of his teeth. "Probably not much older than you. Maybe even younger. You're what? Thirty-four? Thirty-five?" 

 

"Either way, this desert's all I've ever known." If not in Dorado before, then among the sand dunes and cacti after. Jesse couldn't fathom what a mountain looked like - beyond the pictures that he'd seen in an occasional magazine or a video on some cracked display - nor the vastness of the ocean, though he imagined it couldn't be much different from the desert that stretched as far as the eye could see around them, punctuated only by silhouettes of plateaus and mesas in the far distance. 

 

"Ain't much out there prettier than this, I don't think." 

 

Hanzo wasn't sure what it was -- perhaps he had just been caught off-guard by it, McCree's mouth having been hidden by his hand -- but the eye-crinkling grin on the cowboy's face left him momentarily breathless. His face was already flushed, but his cheeks (and the rest of him) felt particularly warm in that moment, and Hanzo had to divert his attention to the fire to try and cool down. McCree was alarmingly handsome when he smiled like that, and Hanzo's drunk mind wasn't supplying him with any means of suppressing this realization.  _ Damn him _ . He couldn't even bring himself to feel annoyed by it all.

 

Instead, he was left blushing and staring determinedly into the flames, dinner momentarily abandoned. His only hope of distraction was their conversation.

 

"I am thirty-eight," Hanzo was practically mumbling, his voice a bit rough from  fatigue. He might not have shared that personal detail if he was sober, but right now he couldn't motivate himself to care. Especially not when his thoughts were becoming fixated on McCree's absurdly charming smile and the heavy arm draped around his shoulders. Hanzo thought he should shove that away, now, but his drunken self was weak willed and he managed no such thing.

 

"And I suppose there are certain features of this place that are--" Hanzo, foolishly uninhibited, shot a glance at McCree before he could stop himself. "--attractive enough."

  
  


Thirty-eight. The pale tufts of silver at Hanzo's temples suggested something of the sort, but his face held a certain boyish, charming quality that made Jesse wonder if he wasn't being played right then. Maybe it was the buzz of alcohol, though. Hanzo looked proper tipsy, if not outright drunk, and his cheeks were pink and his eyes were glassy, bright and golden in the fire's reflection. 

 

Jesse's mouth split into another wide grin, uncomplicated and pleased by the revelation. 

 

"Thirty-eight, huh? Why, you're practically ancient, old man," he teased, knocking their knees together with more purpose than the accidental brushes from before. They were practically sharing the warmth of the serape, now, huddled close together with the heavy fabric curling over Jesse's arm where it was still wrapped around Hanzo's shoulders. Hanzo had yet to say anything on the subject, and Jesse wasn't about to let this opportunity slip between his fingers, glad if only for the contact. 

 

"I'm thirty-seven," he parted with some quiet moments later. The glance shot his way had definitely been noticed, and feeling emboldened by that look and the connotation behind Hanzo's words (as well as the whisky still singing through his veins) Jesse plucked at the hem of the serape, peeling it away from Hanzo's body in order to wrap half over himself, trapping them both effectively under the make-shift blanket. 

 

"Hm. Like what?" 

 

_ 'Like what _ ' _?  _ Shit, Hanzo had walked right into that one, hadn't he? His implication had been too heavy-handed, his glance too purposeful, and he inwardly cursed himself for being so unintentionally obvious. Even drunk, McCree had picked up on it. Now Hanzo had little in the way of escape, and his tired, inebriated brain was working a mile a minute to try and come up with a response that didn't expose him any further.

 

It was no easy feat to think, though, not when McCree had them bundled up even closer, together now beneath his blanket-like shawl with their thighs pressed together in a manner that had to be intentional. Hanzo couldn't even feign annoyance at McCree's needling, in part because he had no reason to be -- his age was no secret, and the cowboy was only a year his junior. 

 

He half-wished the flask of whiskey had not already run dry. Another few gulps of liquor would have helped Hanzo to shred the last of his inhibitions, and rather than remaining red-faced and frozen with McCree's handsome smile boring into him, he might have been able to act. 

 

Well, he supposed he still  _ could _ . Hanzo had slept with men he had known for less time than McCree. The trouble was that they were to spend the next month working together, sharing beds and bedrolls, and such an affair would only complicate their tenuous business arrangement.

 

That was Hanzo's impression, anyway. He could accept that he found this ridiculous man attractive, but that was as far as he should let that train of thought go.

 

He glanced away again, abandoning his spoon in the warm copper pot they had been sharing between them. Hanzo did his best to shutter his expression, to withdraw as he so easily did when sober. He was only modestly successful -- his face was still flushed, and the way he licked his lips was perhaps telling in and of itself.

 

"It is late." The change in subject was blatantly abrupt, but Hanzo wasn't capable of much subtlety at the moment. He began to shift as though to move to his feet, doing so slowly and purposefully for fear that he might lose his balance. "I think I will call it a night."

 

_ Wait, no _ . 

 

The sudden loss of warmth against his side took too long to process, but Jesse was acutely aware of the way his arm was left to wrap around nothing but thin air in the shoulder-shaped space that Hanzo left behind. He didn't know what he'd done wrong; the flirting had seemed mutual, in the moment, though Jesse could possibly chalk up misreading the entire situation to his muggy head and the heat pooled low in his belly. Had he read it wrong, though? 

 

With Hanzo half-stumbling towards the tent with the serape still wrapped around his shoulders, Jesse couldn't help feeling like he might of. 

 

Then he was gone and Jesse still hadn't called him back, the cotton in his mouth thick and cloying and hard to swallow around. 

 

Shit, and here he'd been hoping for a warm body to spend the night with. Not that Hanzo was only that. He was handsome, and charming, and his smile had Jesse's heart doing strange little flips in his chest, but it'd been a long time since he'd literally slept with someone in his arms, and Jesse was missing it somethin' fierce. 

 

He let Hanzo go, though, and turned back to the fire before he could get caught out staring too hard, his own face flushed more from embarrassment than intoxication. Maybe it would all be forgotten in the morning - that seemed like the best-case outcome, at any rate, since they'd have to work with each other for the next weeks and the last thing Jesse wanted was to deal with whatever tension this could potentially result in. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For anyone curious:
> 
> Fresh wrote for McCree  
> Tea wrote for Hanzo


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Just a boatload of shameless smut.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This account is run and managed by two people: Tea and Fresh.
> 
> We are RP partners, and we're using this platform to unload our (copious) number of RPs.  
> Mostly smut, tbh.
> 
> The POV changes frequently, given the nature of roleplay writing, and if there are any noticeable continuity gaps it's 100% because the rp was abandoned for a few days/weeks before getting picked up again.
> 
> None of these works have been edited, touched up, or polished.

Two days later, and his hopes were summarily dashed against the bricks. 

 

He hadn't been able to  _ stop  _ thinking about the warmth, about the press of Hanzo's body and the glances  _ still  _ being shot his way when the man didn't think he was looking. Jesse was about to go mad, between sharing a tent and sharing constant space during the hottest hours of the day, and when they finally set foot into town, he'd honestly never been so grateful in his life. 

 

The room they rented had two beds, this time, though that wasn't much compensation when it was still small and cramped and the bathroom faucets leaked, but at least it meant they wouldn't have to share. Jesse wasn't sure he'd be able to control his itching fingers if he had to lay beside Hanzo for a night, not with all of that sun-pink, soft skin and whip-sharp tongue. 

 

"You should shower first. Cold one'll do that burn some good." Their supplies were running low, but they could restock later, and Jesse, for one, was glad to be off his feet and out of his boots, stretching out right there on the floor to go through his satchel and see what they were missing. 

  
  


Hanzo was already starting for the bathroom when McCree suggested the shower -- he was positively  _ itching _ with the need for his own space, having spent the past two days feeling claustrophobic. To feel such a way was absurd, considering he had been in the desert, far from anywhere densely populated and not once encountering any living human being who was not McCree. But that was precisely the source of his discomfort. Hanzo had been forced into close-quarters with McCree for such a long stretch of time, every night sleeping beside him in the cramped space of their tent, and every morning walking beside him shoulder to shoulder. The silences between them had become more constant, and they were not always pleasant, even for Hanzo. Ever since that one night of sharing whisky and body heat by the fire, there was too much tension buzzing between them for Hanzo to relax.

 

In retrospect, he realized there was no real reason to dwell upon it. They had not  _ done _ anything, and other than McCree putting an arm around Hanzo's shoulders, nothing especially intimate had transpired. 

 

It was illogical, but they were  _ both _ clearly on-edge about something, and Hanzo was not so naive as to think it had to do with anything other than that one drunken night.

 

Now they were in town again, in a room that had two beds with a modestly-sized bathroom and a door that locked. Hanzo was gone without a word, stopping only so long as to shed his gear at the foot of his cot. Once inside, he took his time scrubbing himself clean of all the sweat and dirt of their travels, grateful to finally have enough water to indulge in such a luxury. His skin was burnt in a few places, but it was starting to tan in most others now that Hanzo was taking more care to cover up -- which he did with the help of McCree's shawl, as the cowboy had conceded to him after Hanzo first (grudgingly) asked to borrow it. 

 

After that, he meticulously went about washing his hair and clothes, prolonging the inevitable return to his and McCree's shared space for as long as he could. He could only delay it for so long, though. McCree would want to use the shower, too, and so it would be unfair of Hanzo to occupy it for too long.

 

Eventually, reluctantly, Hanzo left the bathroom with a towel slung around his hips. He was not generally bothered by the prospect of his own nudity; much of that modesty was numbed by years of using the high-class  _ onsen _ in Hanamura's countryside. But public baths were different than a shared hotel room, he supposed, and Hanzo felt exposed enough around McCree lately even when fully clothed. He thought it better to avoid making himself any more uncomfortable than he already was. 

 

Hanzo did not look up when he made his way past the cowboy to his side of the cramped room. He appeared intent on keeping quiet, as he usually did over the past many hours, but eventually something compelled Hanzo to speak.

 

"There is another fresh towel beside the sink," he said, not sounding particularly conversational. Hanzo wasn't really looking to have an exchange; he hoped McCree would take the hint and give them another much-needed break from one another's company. 

  
  


It didn't take long to finish inventory, while Hanzo finished puttering around the room and then disappeared into the bathroom. They had very little left - Jesse had only bought enough last time to get them the few days to this town, accounting for an extra day of travel were something to go wrong. One rasher of dried meat, half a canteen of water. No more whisky, unfortunately, but that would was top of his mental shopping list, if only because Jesse naively hoped that it would help clear up whatever awkwardness lingered between himself and Hanzo. 

 

He understood - the man was there for business, not for pleasure - but that didn't explain one bit the way he sometimes caught Hanzo's gaze lingering on him when the man thought he wasn't looking. Even  _ when  _ he wasn't, Jesse could still  _ feel  _ it, against the side of his face or on his torso or in other places, burning hot enough to make anyone squirm. 

 

That was what Jesse couldn't wrap his mind around. 

 

Surely Hanzo, wealthy as he was, could afford a night (or many), and there was nothing stopping them from keeping a working relationship alongside whatever else it was clear they both wanted. Maybe it was out of a sense of politeness, or propriety, or something of the sort. Jesse didn't know, and this not knowing coupled with the tension between them thick enough to cut was what finally sent McCree out of the room. 

 

He ended up at the hotel's bar - unsurprisingly - and while there wasn't anything worthwhile on tap, the owner had moonshine, home-brewed and strong

 

Jesse downed three shots before he was feeling warm again, comfortable down to his toes, and then another two for good measure so that by the time he returned to their shared quarters, it was with bravado to spare and an interrogation at the tip of his tongue. 

 

He was sat on his bed, turning his thoughts over and sideways, when Hanzo finally stepped out of the shower, damp hair plastered to his forehead and a small,  _ sinful  _ towel wrapped around his waist. For a moment, Jesse was side-tracked from his intentions by the sight of that strong chest and the creamy tops of Hanzo's thighs, but then Hanzo spoke, and Jesse pushed himself up off the bed and right into the other man's face. 

 

"What gives ya the  _ right _ , huh?" he slurred, nonsensical, eyes narrowed and moonshine on his breath, "Gives ya the right to come on'ta me like ya wanna do somethin' and then act like it's  _ my  _ fault when ya change ya mind?" Hanzo's waist was firm, still wet in patches, and his skin was unmarked by scar or blemish, impossibly smooth under Jesse's palms when he wrapped them brazenly around it, forcing Hanzo back towards the wall with a stumbling step forward. 

 

"You  _ want  _ this. I know ya do, you know it. So what's fucken' stopping ya?" 

  
  


Hanzo rarely let down his guard, and so he was by no means an easy man to surprise. But he had been resolute in his efforts to keep McCree out of his thoughts, and so he paid the cowboy little heed when he returned to the bedroom. He didn't notice McCree moving closer, and was barely listening to the heavy, graceless thud of his footsteps.

 

So it came as a shock when, suddenly, McCree was in front of him, nearly flush against him, those large, callused hands wrapping around Hanzo's waist, coarse and warm against his skin. His breath reflexively caught in his throat, and for a moment Hanzo was left frozen and speechless. He had been burying all feelings of attraction for this ridiculous man in the hopes that he might soon forget them; after all, making anything of them would be foolish and Hanzo prided himself in his own self-control and discipline. He had been mostly successful in that endeavour, too, and aside from the uncomfortable tension and the glances he sometimes couldn't help but steal, Hanzo could ignore whatever had stirred between them.

 

Until now. There was no ignoring the way McCree was crowding up against him, his words coming out slurred and rumbling, his breath hot and stinking of liquor. And  _ those hands -- _ Hanzo had been trying not to let his mind wander to them for days. They were strong hands, thick-knuckled from years of labor, but also nimble and lightning-quick with a gun. Something about that kept sticking in Hanzo's head and he had tried, desperately, to ignore his fixation.

Now he had no choice. McCree had apparently caught on, despite Hanzo's best efforts to feign disinterest. And now he was demanding the attention that Hanzo had been so carefully denying him.

 

Hanzo couldn't even bring himself to feel angry at being manhandled, although he  _ should  _ be bothered by it, and by the fact that McCree still stunk of dirt and sweat. There were many things Hanzo  _ should  _ be doing, really, like pushing McCree away and putting this entire debacle to rest. He only got so far as bringing a hand to McCree's chest, but the intent to shove him back was not there, and so it served to do little more than keep a scant few inches of space between them. A useless buffer, considering how close McCree already was. Hanzo knew there was no point in trying to compose himself, now, not when his reaction had been so obvious, both in the way he was staring and the flush that rose high on his cheeks.

 

He did try to protest, at least, but it was a halfhearted effort at best, and his voice was thick and strained.

 

"McCree--" Hanzo started but had to pause long enough to swallow. His mouth twitched into a frown, though even that looked to be taking too much effort to be genuine. "You are drunk."

  
  


"And  _ you _ -" Jesse stretched the last syllable, accusatory, leaning back against the hands upon his chest like he would set his entire weight on the smaller, lighter man. "You are a damn  _ tease _ ." 

 

Hanzo made no large effort to push him away, and emboldened as he was by the alcohol (and assured as he was, somewhere in the back of his head, that Hanzo could and would hurt him if he felt particularly threatened) Jesse dipped his hands a little lower, fingertips skimming over the edge of the towel wrapped tight around Hanzo's waist until they settled at the small of his back. It took no effort at all to flick the bit of terrycloth away; it fluttered to the ground and left Hanzo exposed to Jesse's scrutiny, all long, lean lines and a pale flush that stained his cheeks. 

 

Jesse wanted to follow it, with his teeth and tongue and fingers, but he only got so far as the lobe of Hanzo's ear, breath ghosting over sensitive skin and lips feeling goosebumps as they flashed into existence. 

 

"I want it," he murmured, honest and earnest and  _ eager _ . Hanzo smelled like soap, something antibacterial and cloying, but underneath there was still that faint hint of his skin, soft as the delicate tufts of hair that were starting to dry and tickle Jesse's nose. "Wanted it that night, too. When ya smiled at me like I'd hung the moon. Prettiest damn thing I've ever  _ seen _ , Hanzo." Even drunk and slurring his words, Jesse couldn't seem to stop his mouth from running faster than his brain could process them, words tumbling from between his wet, red lips like if he didn't get them all out at once he would choke on the syllables. 

 

"I ain't gonna charge ya, darlin'. Not one credit." Hanzo was too rare an opportunity to sully with dirty money. "I just wanna feel ya, for a little while. I betcha I could make it real good - work some of that stress from your shoulders." His thumbs ran up either side of Hanzo's spine as he spoke, pressing into tense spots as though Jesse truly knew what he was doing, and his mouth paused in its ceaseless flow of words just long enough for him to take Hanzo's earlobe between his teeth, to bite down on it and press the rough bristles of his beard to the sensitive skin of the other man's throat. 

  
  


All it took was that hot breath tickling across his skin, sending a rush of heat and arousal down his spine and and between his legs, for Hanzo's willpower crumble. He shivered at the sensation, eyelids lowering and lashes brushing his cheeks as he felt goosebumps spread across his throat and shoulders. Even with the sunburn, it was obvious he was flushed; there really was no point in pretending he was uninterested. And, Hanzo weakly conceded, perhaps there was no point in trying to separate business from pleasure, after all.

 

McCree's words were what truly cemented Hanzo's decision, though. His voice was thick and honey-sweet, dripping from his tongue, the syllables dragging and  _ purred _ . The content of them was just as pleasant, even if the compliments were laid on a bit thick, even if McCree was talking a whole lot longer than he needed to. Despite himself, Hanzo shivered again, the hand on McCree's chest curling in the fabric of his shirt, keeping a fistful of it. Keeping him  _ close _ , rather than at bay. 

 

He would not resist this. Hanzo couldn't even if he had wanted to, not after the last forty-hour's worth of repressed desire and unfulfilled sexual tension was finally bubbling to the surface. McCree's hands were rubbing at his back, the callused pads pleasantly rough against his skin as they worked at one of the many knots that had formed just two days into their voyage. Hanzo groaned before he could stop himself, though the sound was muffled to the point of being nearly inaudible. 

 

Then, just a moment later, he felt teeth sinking into the sensitive flesh of his ear, along with McCree's warm breath and the scratch of his beard teasing his throat.  _ That _ was the final straw, the last seduction needed to coax Hanzo out of his shocked stillness. His other hand grabbed at the collar of McCree's shirt, clutching tightly and yanking him down so that he could catch those tempting red lips in a none-too-gentle kiss. 

 

_ 'To shut him up,' _ Hanzo reasoned with himself, as he sucked McCree's bottom lip between his teeth.  _ 'Before he makes an even bigger fool of himself.' _

  
  


If this was what being a fool got him, then Jesse would have to try it more often. Hanzo's teeth set against his lip, biting it like he was staking a claim and Jesse was only more than happy for him to do so. His hands dropped, now that he presumably had carte blanche to do as he please. He'd been staring at that ass for eons, it seemed, unable to get the last good look he'd been privy to out of his head. It was only natural that his first inclination would be to touch. Fingers gripped the firm mounds - each one a perfect handful - and spread Hanzo's cheeks apart, metal digits ghosting along the crease and down to where his balls hung warm and heavy under his dick. 

 

Jesse didn't have much in the way of sensitivity in his prosthetic, but he could feel the pressure and he was exceedingly careful, body-warm steel pressing only briefly to the most sensitive parts of Hanzo's ass and inner thighs before darting away to be replaced by flesh and bone and well-worn calluses. 

 

He couldn't bite back a moan, much like he couldn't bite back the urge to catch Hanzo's lip between his teeth, sucking it into his mouth for the same treatment that his own had received. His own cock stirred in his trousers, was half-hard already and pressing persistently against the nudging Hanzo's stomach, but Jesse paid it no mind for the moment, too enthralled by the man stood before him to care about his own arousal. 

 

He took a step back, then another, and a third until he felt the backs of his knees hit the nearest mattress, which caught him when he heavily sat and found his mouth perfectly-level with one of Hanzo's ample tits. Jesse hardly thought twice about the potential repercussions. 

 

"You're damn  _ gorgeous _ ," he murmured, rubbing his chin over the sensitive skin. The bristles of his beard left it faintly flushed and coaxed forward goosebumps that Jesse proceeded to lick all the way to Hanzo's nipple, catching it between his teeth with a wide-eyed glance upwards at the same time. 

  
  


Hanzo had no compunction about giving McCree free reign to touch him, not now that he had ceded all sense of logic and propriety to empty-headed desire. Besides, he wasn't surprised that McCree was this ridiculously eager to touch, nor was he bothered by it. His hands were rough and warm -- even the metal one, to the point where Hanzo nearly forgot it was a prosthetic -- as they gripped at his ass, and Hanzo more than just  _ tolerated _ the groping. It had been ages since he had last been touched so intimately, and it seemed in the interim that Hanzo's body had grown more sensitive.

 

It was a good thing Hanzo had relented to this while sober. He doubted he would be able to keep anywhere near as composed as he now was had he been even half as drunk as McCree. Hanzo was silent as they kissed, the few sounds he made little more than muffled grunts or hitched breaths that were swallowed up by McCree's mouth.  He was smug to note that McCree was very much  _ not  _ quiet, and Hanzo quite liked the sound of the cowboy's moaning, all rough and deep and desperate. It ignited a fresh spark of heat in his stomach, and along with the teeth now digging into his lip, Hanzo could feel his dick beginning to come to life between his legs. In that respect, too, he had more composure than McCree -- Hanzo had hardly done more than grab his shirt and kiss him, and the man was already half-hard in his pants. 

 

But none of this was surprising, really. McCree was clearly the type of man who lacked self-control, and Hanzo was allowing this brazen fool a few uninterrupted moments to do as he pleased. It suited Hanzo nicely, after all. 

 

Or it  _ did, _ until McCree walked them back to one of the beds, kissing and licking his way across Hanzo's chest before, unexpectedly, his teeth scraped one of Hanzo's nipples. His reaction was immediate: Hanzo swore in breathy Japanese, his eyes squeezed shut, his cock twitched. It might have looked like he was in pain if he had recoiled, but instead Hanzo was twisting his hand more tightly in McCree's shirt, as though intending to yank him closer if he tried to pull away. He hadn't realized his chest was so sensitive. Neither had McCree, probably, or he may not have used so much teeth. 

 

The moment he went for it again, Hanzo untangled one of his hands from McCree's button-up to knock off his hat and grab at his hair. When he felt those teeth for a second time, Hanzo  _ tugged _ .

 

McCree's head was pulled backward, away from his chest and tilted at such an angle that Hanzo could leer down at him, somehow managing to look haughty despite the way his face was flushed and his pupils blown wide. That was quite enough of giving McCree an inch of freedom -- he might make a mile of it if Hanzo didn't bring the situation back under his discerning control.

 

"Strip," he demanded, annoyed at himself for the way his breath was hitching. Hanzo knew he didn't look unaffected, but that shouldn't matter, and he had an inkling that McCree would be eager to listen to him regardless.

  
  


Oh, that  _ was  _ a pretty noise. Jesse didn't know a lick of anything that Hanzo murmured in that breathy voice, but the reception seemed very, very positive and he wasn't about to complain. At least, not until his hat was knocked off and fingers threaded tightly through his hair. 

 

He damn near whined for the sensation, one part disappointed to be so cruelly denied the taste of Hanzo's skin while the other reveled in the sting against his scalp, sensitive as it was. Hanzo put him where he wanted, though, and no eager, plaintive sound seemed to be enough to deter him from whatever it was he desired. A shame, really, but the view was entirely worth it. Jesse would just have to find some other way to tease, like the continued drag of his fingers over Hanzo's firm buttocks or the way he licked his lips at the order given him. 

 

"Yes,  _ sir _ ," he drawled, cheeky in his drunkenness, but even he couldn't miss the way Hanzo preened and postured. The man liked attention and he liked control, and Jesse knew how to play this game as well as any cheap saloon whore. His hands squeezed where they sat, getting a double handful of the meaty part of Hanzo's thighs, and on his way to standing (to towering, honestly, with how much taller he was than Hanzo), Jesse couldn't help himself from giving the other nipple similar treatment, tongue darting over it in a slow, teasing drag before his bottom teeth caught at the bottom. It was totally worth it, even when it earned him another hard yank to his hair. 

 

His stripping was far from efficient - clothes landing in a haphazard heap around them - but it was  _ quick _ , and that was the most important part.

 

In minutes he was bare, dick eager where it curved up to his furred stomach. All of him was hairy, from the wide expanse of his chest with dusky nipples poking out between the dark curls to the tops of his muscled thighs. He wasn't quite as trim as Hanzo - his gut had clearly seen more than a few hearty meals and he was littered in scars from toe to tip - but he had confidence enough to make up for whatever perceived shortcomings anyone might've accused him of, flexing subtly while he let Hanzo get his fill. 

 

"Like what ya see, darlin'?" Most people stared, if only briefly, at what Jesse had packing, and more than one had expressed some measure of surprise at the fact that he was thick and uncut, tip flushed red and beading precome already.

 

"Cause I know  _ I  _ do." He was naked and with nothing else to do, his hands found their way back to Hanzo's body, slotting over his hips to try and pull him flush again. "You're damn pretty, is what you are." 

  
  


McCree was cleverer than he let on, even in his drunkenness. He had picked up on the fact that Hanzo’s chest was sensitive and appeared eager to get more reactions out of him even with the yanks at his hair and the (admittedly half-hearted) scowls Hanzo shot his way. He supposed the hair-tugging wasn’t a particularly effective form of punishment, though, not with the way McCree had practically  _ keened _ at the first sharp yank. Well, if nothing else, at least Hanzo had that to distract him with if he persisted.

 

But after the second flick of his teeth against Hanzo’s other nipple – which was met by a hair-tug and another hissed expletive – McCree was too preoccupied with undressing himself to keep at it. Hanzo stepped back to watch him strip, using this precious few moments to try and regain some amount of composure. 

Whatever progress he made on that front was promptly quashed the moment McCree was fully bare.  

 

McCree was a large man in nearly every sense of the word, from his towering stature and wide shoulders, to his barrel chest and thick thighs. And then there was  _ cock _ . Hanzo couldn’t stop himself from staring. While he had not seen a particularly staggering number of dicks in his lifetime, Hanzo could say with confidence that McCree’s was the biggest he had ever come across. Not just in length, either – it was the girth of it that shocked him, the shaft thick and veiny and curving up toward his hairy stomach despite its obvious weight. Hanzo’s mouth went dry. He realized his staring was probably feeding the cowboy’s ego, but it was difficult not to when there was so much for his eyes to eagerly drink in. 

 

Hanzo liked how hairy McCree was. It seemed fitting, for one – McCree was coarse and dirty, more a  _ beast _ than a man as far as Hanzo was concerned, and there was something to be said for men who pulled off that ruggedly handsome aesthetic. McCree was scarred, too, bullet holes and knife wounds by the looks of it, and even that was somehow appealing. He had an inkling most of those scars were from gunfights and the like. McCree had clearly seen a good deal of fighting.

And even _that_ was something Hanzo found attractive – McCree was a strong and competent fighter, with the scars and wounds to prove it. 

 

All things considered, it was no surprise that Hanzo was half-hard just looking at him.

 

He was eventually brought out of his stunned and lustful staring by a pair of hands on his hips and the buttery purr of McCree’s voice. One statement in particular gave him pause, his brow knotting at the word  _ pretty _ . As far as Hanzo’s understanding of English went,  _ pretty  _ was an adjective better applied to women and other effeminate, delicate things. Hanzo was neither. He was slimmer than McCree and more compactly muscled, but muscular nonetheless, especially in his arms and shoulders. He was also nowhere near as hirsute; Hanzo was lucky he could grow a beard, in all honesty, considering that most of his body hair was limited to his armpits and the patch that trailed from his navel to his groin.  But that didn’t make him  _ pretty _ . Hanzo sniffed haughtily at McCree’s comment, tempted to snappishly correct him or to demand that McCree stop talking.

 

Instead, Hanzo opted to focus on more important matters – for instance, getting this ridiculous, handsome  _ beast _ beneath him so Hanzo could do more than just appraise his body with his eyes. He wanted to touch.

Without warning, Hanzo placed both palms on McCree’s furred chest and pushed him down toward the mattress. He wasn’t far behind, straddling McCree’s hips as soon as his ass landed on the bed, and then taking a moment to appreciatively run his hands across his stomach. 

When his eyes met McCree’s again, Hanzo’s gaze was practically burning.

“Yes,” he answered belatedly, his voice quiet and growled. “I like what I see. But I would prefer to do more than just  _ look _ at you.”

Propriety and his withdrawn nature aside, Hanzo could be blunt when he felt so inclined. Like right now, with greed and impatience and  _ want _ driving him wild.

 

“Lie back.”

  
  


Hanzo  _ was  _ pretty, for all that he was handsome and masculine as well. There was something to the softness of his pale skin, the single, delicate beauty mark on his shoulder. Even the pink of his sunburn was damn  _ sweet _ , like his skin was far too sensitive to weather the harshness of nature. 

 

Jesse went down as he was pushed, ass hitting the mattress and the rest of him following until he was horizontal, the whole regal line of Hanzo's body perched haughtily above him. He liked the view, though. Hanzo was neatly-trimmed and impeccably-sculpted, like he'd gone out of his way to only train himself in certain areas - and only for so long - so that his silhouette made for the most appealing view. That wasn't to say he wasn't strong, though. There was clear power in his arms and in his broad shoulders, and the calluses on his fingertips gave further validity to his prowess with that bow of his. Jesse was perhaps a little too eager for the day that he would get to see Hanzo use it. 

 

In the moment, however, he was far more eager to see how Hanzo used  _ other _ things, like his hands and his cock and the smug-turned curl of his mouth. 

 

"Never met a man who wanted to do all the work. You're a real bit of somethin', sweetheart." His fingers traced the bulge of muscle along Hanzo's upper thighs, then dropped down to where the smooth metal of his calves sat tucked under them, his fingers clinking faintly against the finish. It was smooth - smoother than his own arm, at any rate - and the seam where it met flesh was hardly discernible, unlike his own scarred, hap-hazard join. Jesse tried to find it, briefly, before moving on to explore the meat of Hanzo's ass and the dip of his lower back, already dappled in sweat and whatever moisture had been left over from his shower. 

 

Then, with an unexpected speed for a man so drunk, Jesse flipped them, lounging between Hanzo's spread legs for just a moment before he corralled them both further up the bed. It wasn't vicious, nor did Jesse make a move much further than that, earnest only in the way he pressed his face to Hanzo's throat and bit the skin there while his wide palms dragged up over Hanzo's sides. 

 

"Taste good, too," he slurred, wet tongue leaving the tendons of Hanzo's throat slick with spit, and ground his hips teasingly down so that their cocks rubbed together, easily with his own drooling pre at the tip. 

  
  


Hanzo had expected, what with McCree being so intoxicated and eager, that it would be easy enough to keep pinned down and relatively complacent while Hanzo set the pace. It was what he was used to, and quite frankly, how he  _ preferred  _ it -- Hanzo needed a sense of control in every facet of his life, even behind closed doors.  _ Especially  _ behind close doors, in fact. There was something about intimacy that set his teeth on edge, and the best (and perhaps the only) way to cope with that was by maintaining as much control over the situation as he could.

 

It was the reason why Hanzo had never taken on very many lovers in his lifetime, though the few men and women he had bedded never complained about this particular 'quirk' of his -- in part because none of them were ever around long enough to catch on or tire of it.

 

In any event, McCree managed to surprise him yet again. Before Hanzo had a chance to react, he was rolled over onto his back by strong, deft hands. He had tensed up the moment he found himself underneath McCree, regardless of how gentle he was being with brushing of his palms along Hanzo's sides and the way his face was nuzzling his throat. He didn't relax a mite, either, even though the tongue against his neck felt pleasant and the slow drag of McCree's fat cock against his own was sending delighted shivers down his spine. This was too confining. 

 

"McCree--" Hanzo inwardly cursed the way his breath shuddered as he forced that name between his lips, not sounding as displeased as he intended. He tried to make this clearer with a hand pressed up against McCree's chest, pushing at him insistently. "I would rather be  _ on top. _ "

  
  


Jesse had been with all kinds. It wasn't exactly an exhaustive list of lovers - mainly men and women that were looking for a long passage from one end of the wasteland to the other, that had credits or bullets and, like everyone, got lonely on the weeks-long treks across the desert landscape - but it was enough that he'd gotten his fair sampling of personalities and quirks. 

 

That said, he was used to taking the lead. Few people wanted to run the show when their sole purpose for paying him to fuck was to relax, or to fill some emotional void. It was Jesse's job to entertain, to perform adequately enough that for a few hours they could forget they were out in the middle of nowhere with some stranger and not somewhere warm or safe. But Jesse McCree was nothing if not flexible, so when Hanzo tensed under him, body going rigid despite the gentle caress and the teeth - teeth that had moments prior seemed  _ more  _ than welcome - on his skin, Jesse backed off. He lifted his head, lashes fluttering and the cherry-slash of his mouth on display, then grinned, bottom lip disappearing briefly between his teeth while he tried to school his features into something marginally more serious to match Hanzo's grimace. 

 

"Of course, darlin'. Whatever you'd like." Jesse wasn't picky, largely, and if it meant that Hanzo relaxed a little, he wasn't about to argue. Just as quickly as they'd switched spots the first time, they switched again, Jesse on the bottom with Hanzo straddling his waist. "The view's prettier from here, anyway." And Jesse could trace his fingers all along Hanzo's trim stomach and down to the swell of his ass as he pleased, fingers trailing sensation over firm muscle. 

  
  


McCree was more amenable to trading positions than Hanzo had expected him to be. He had figured that the cowboy would say or do something  _ cheeky _ , but McCree was nothing but accommodating as he rolled over and dragged Hanzo onto his lap.The effect was immediate; the tension in Hanzo's shoulders loosened, and he appeared considerably more at ease now that this control had been handed back to him. He made a point to root himself in place this time as a precaution, digging his knees into the sides of McCree's thick thighs, then leaning forward so that his chest was draped across his soft, furred stomach and bulky chest. He would not be so easy to displace, this time.

 

But there was another issue Hanzo felt the need to address. McCree kept spewing such embarrassingly sweet words --  _ darling  _ and  _ pretty  _ in particular had Hanzo's cheeks burning hot, and he knew he needed some way of shutting the fool up. Since kissing him had proven to be a surprisingly effective solution to his chattiness earlier, Hanzo tried it again, dipping down to press his mouth against McCree's and carding one of his hands through his wild mess of hair. When McCree began to reciprocate, Hanzo pulled away, catching his bottom lip between his teeth to give it a teasing tug as he did so, then yanking McCree's hair to keep him from chasing Hanzo's mouth. It was a cruel, he realized, but the thought of working up this beast of a man until he was desperate and yielding was far too appealing.

 

With an almost thoughtful-sounding hum, Hanzo kept his lips hovering just out of reach of McCree's as if making up his mind whether to kiss him a third time or not. 

 

Instead, he buried his face against McCree's throat, sank his teeth in -- payback for earlier, mostly -- and began rolling his hips for some much-needed friction. It wasn't anywhere near enough to satisfy either of them, of course, but the slow grind of their cocks had Hanzo finally hard and leaking while he groaned quietly into McCree's neck.

  
  


In what was no surprise to anyone, even in bed Jesse made _ noise _ . Breathless, ragged gasps and deep, baritone moans filled the air and likely alerted anyone who might've been out in the hall of what was going on behind closed doors, and while Jesse couldn't be assed to care about the reception, Hanzo seemed intent on shutting him up, soft mouth over his own and the scratch of bristles against his chin. It was a hard kiss, initiated with intent, but even that wasn't enough to have Jesse quiet, not when fingers threaded through his hair and jerked him back and the sweet taste of Hanzo's bottom lip was so cruelly denied him. 

 

Jesse whined - like a  _ beast  _ denied  _ \-  _ and tried to jerk against the firm hold upon his wild mane of hair, unable to get far before Hanzo was tucking his nose down and leaving his throat with dark, claiming marks. 

 

"Oh - fuck,  _ darlin _ '." It was  _ good _ . Their bodies rocked together in tandem, and Jesse's hands trailed up Hanzo's spine, over his ass. He couldn't touch  _ enough _ , couldn't pinch nearly as many bruises and marks into Hanzo's skin as he wanted to, but he took what he could get and squeezed one firm asscheek, his other hand thumbing lightly at Hanzo's nipple on its way up to tangle in his smooth, silken hair. It was like water, gliding over metal joints only to fall away and settle back in place, and Jesse thought for one hot second that surely it was the softest thing he'd ever laid eyes on. His right hand soon joined the left, tangling in the strands and tugging them far more lightly than his own had been, and his parted mouth continued to run, words spilling in between desperate inhales and the jerk of his hips. 

 

"You feel  _ amazing _ , sweetheart. Can't wait to have you in me," cause surely that's what Hanzo had meant when he said 'on top'. 

 

"There's usually condoms at these places. Lube, too." 

  
  


Those low, gravelly moans that kept rolling past McCree's lips were awfully  _ noisy  _ and debauched, but they quickly grew on Hanzo, who felt no small amount of pride for being the one to cause them. What had him wanting to find another means of shutting McCree up were those ridiculous, gratuitous words of endearment. Every husky utterance of  _ sweetheart  _ and  _ darling _ left Hanzo flustered, his flushed face kept buried against McCree's shoulder where he could both hide his reactions and bite another bruise above his collarbone. He wondered if he shouldn't find another way of keeping McCree quiet -- a makeshift gag, or better yet, Hanzo's  _ cock. _

 

The thought had his breath stuttering in his chest and Hanzo's dick twitching with anticipation. He was then forced to stifle a gasp when the warm, metal fingers of McCree's prosthetic arm rubbed and teased at his pebbled nipple, then tugged gently at Hanzo's still-wet hair. Every touch felt pleasant, tightening the hot coil that had settled low in Hanzo's stomach. It had clearly been too long since he last had sex; years of self-inflicted celibacy had made him oversensitive.

 

Swallowing thickly and slowing the steady roll of his hips in an attempt to compose himself, Hanzo pulled back, away from the hands tangled in his hair and McCree's red-and-blue marked shoulder. He shifted his weight onto his cybernetic ankles but kept straddled atop the cowboy's hips, looking him over with one slow sweep of his eyes. It was every bit the cool appraisal of a hunter assessing his quarry, though there was a flash of hunger in those deep brown eyes, too, and the blush had yet to leave Hanzo's cheeks.

 

Whatever he appeared to be considering, he arrived at his decision after a beat of silence.

 

"You are filthy." The frank delivery of that statement precluded it from being bedroom talk. Hanzo really did mean that McCree was  _ filthy _ , caked in two day's worth of sweat and dirt. He should be washed before Hanzo put any part of himself inside. Of course, he very much doubted that McCree had the patience for bathing right now -- in all honesty, Hanzo wasn't terribly interested in waiting, either. 

 

He supposed a compromise could be made.

 

"I will fuck you once you have washed yourself," Hanzo stated primly. He was already relenting that this lapse in judgement was not to be a one-time affair, that he was willing to have sex with McCree  _ again _ . 

 

At the same time, he wrapped his hand around McCree's dick, secretly delighted by how thick and hot and  _ heavy _ it felt in his palm. The cowboy impressed him with far more than just his sharpshooting skills. Damn him.

 

"In the meantime, I wonder--" Hanzo squeezed his hand, but didn't yet move it.  _ Cruel _ , he realized once again, but he could not seem to stop himself. "--if that mouth of yours is good for anything more than incessant  _ chatting." _

  
  


Terribly  _ cruel _ , Jesse would have agreed. He might've even hesitated, had he known just how withholding Hanzo would be (that was blatantly untrue, but even Jesse wouldn't admit that he was such a glut for punishment). But he hadn't, and so here he was, with his dick in a warm palm and no relief to accompany it. 

 

Hanzo called him  _ filthy  _ and sat astride his hips like a prince on a throne, and for a hot second Jesse wanted to ask - if he was filthy, then what did that make  _ Hanzo _ , when the man was just as clearly affected by the thought of fucking him?  _ Depraved _ , was the answer.  _ Desperate _ . Downright  _ dirty _ ; Jesse could see beyond that haughty expression despite his own drunkenness, all the way down to where Hanzo blushed and bit his lip each time his gaze lingered just a little too long on the soft hair along Jesse's stomach or the proud jut of his cock. 

 

"Well there ain't no harm in tryin'ta find out, is there?" he murmured, grinding his hips in small circles as though he might get some friction from the hand wrapped loosely around him without dislodging the man in his lap. "This mouth's good for all sorts of clever things, darlin'. I can tie a mean knot in a cherry stem." Among other things, of course, notably among them his relative lack of a gag reflex. 

 

Jesse grinned, loose and sloppy and showing off the sweetly crooked line of his teeth, and curled both wide hands under Hanzo's thighs, where sweat already made the man's skin tacky and hot. "I can sing," he continued, undeterred by Hanzo's continued scrutiny. His fingers gripped a little tighter, urging the man closer like with enough persistence Jesse could get Hanzo to shift closer, up his chest until his dick was level with the soft curve of Jesse's mouth. "Can't show ya if ya don't let me though, sweetheart." 

  
  


Hanzo needed no convincing -- he was already enthralled by those crookedly grinning lips, and the humid heat of McCree's breath against his leaking prick. He wanted that mouth,  _ desperately,  _ and especially so if it was as talented as McCree bossted. Without the need for any further prompting, Hanzo shifted closer, moving until his knees were tucked above either side of McCree's shoulders. If he squeezed them any closer, he could easily put the man in a headlock between his thighs -- an oddly tempting idea, but the promise of those red lips and silver-tongue laving his cock with attention was more appealing at the moment. 

 

"Very well," Hanzo relented with a shuddering sigh, combing one of his hands through McCree's tangled mane of hair. He couldn't quite keep his cool facade, not when McCree's mouth was so tantalizingly close, not when Hanzo's pulse was throbbing wildly in his throat and between his legs. He scraped his nails against the cowboy's scalp and barely restrained the urge to twist his fingers and thrust into his mouth. But  _ no, _ Hanzo could be in control without being forceful, and he wanted McCree to find pleasure in this, as well. Hanzo was not a selfish lover. 

 

" _ Show me _ ," he prompted with an impatient, albeit gentle tug at McCree's hair. He was entirely prepared to let the cowboy show him whether or not that mouth he bragged of was really so impressive.

 

Hanzo sincerely hoped it was.

  
  


"Oh, _ darlin _ '." Prettiest cock he'd ever seen. It bobbed temptingly, the tip hitting his bottom lip and brushing at his chin when Jesse deigned to take too long, content enough to spend some lingering moments soaking in the weight of Hanzo on his chest and the smell of soap and musk. He was acutely aware of his own disadvantageous position, but that only made it hotter. Hanzo could kill him any number of creative ways in this position. He wouldn't, Jesse knew - or hoped at any rate - if only because he seemed too proud a man to strike someone when they were already on their back.

 

"You're so beautiful." It wasn't difficult to find any number of things to compliment Hanzo on, and it didn't hurt that Jesse was as loose with his words as he was with his morals, tucking his chin in to suck a dark mark into the soft skin of Hanzo's inner thigh. His beard rubbed along the shaft of Hanzo's dick as it dragged over his cheek and smeared pre into the soft hair; he paid it no mind. Lavishing attention to the delicate crease of Hanzo's hip seemed like a much better waste of his time, though Jesse relented when he felt another insistent tug at his hair, looking glassy-eyed and  _ filthy _ .

 

He licked his lips and stared up, wet mouth parted on an inhale and another compliment. "Damn  _ gorgeous _ , darlin'. C'mere; you're gonna need to get a little closer if y'plan to get it all in." It would be easier, anyway, if Jesse didn't have to crane his neck.

 

But that was enough talk. His palms settled on Hanzo's hips, coaxing him forward so that when Jesse finally closed his lips around the man's dick, it was  _ impressive _ , tongue lathing over the tip and along the thick vein on the underside. Jesse didn't pause there long, hollowing his cheeks and digging the blunt tips of his fingers into the meat of Hanzo's ass as though to urge him closer. The man was by no means small, but Jesse was well-enough practiced at the art that even an involuntary buck of Hanzo's hips didn't deter him. He barely gagged, swallowing thickly around the taste of salt and the weight of Hanzo's dick in his mouth, lashes coming to rest on his cheeks and more  _ noise _ \- wet and greedy, now - slipping past the seal of his mouth and into the air between them.

  
  


If not for the fact that they were uttered with such awestruck sincerity, Hanzo would have bristled at the words of endearment. McCree used them so liberally, and with every one making Hanzo's skin flush hotter, he was relieved when the cowboy's mouth was finally put to better use. 

 

McCree swallowed him down with all the finesse of a man who really was experienced in this; there wasn't even any need for Hanzo to apologize to the unintentional jerk of his hips, for McCree neither gagged nor seemed to mind when Hanzo's cock hit the back of his throat. But was truly caught him off-guard was the way McCree swallowed him down --  _ hungrily _ , with a nearly animal sound rumbling in his chest and past his lips. It was enough to force from Hanzo a strangled groan, which he was quick to silence into the crook of his elbow as he tightened his hold on McCree's hair. Oh, this was  _ dangerous. _ The tight, wet heat of the cowboy's mouth was sucking around his dick with well-practiced ease, and McCree was enjoying every second of it if his shameful noises were any indication. Hanzo's self-control and cool demeanor could only withstand so much. 

 

He gasped and scrabbled blindly with his free hand to find something else to cling to, grabbing at the wooden headboard and holding on until his knuckles whitened. Hanzo's eyelids fluttered half-open -- he could not recall when he had squeezed them shut -- and he immediately regretted his decision to steal a glance down at the cowboy's face.

 

McCree was the very picture of debauchery: His pink lips were spread wide around the base of Hanzo's cock, his warm brown eyes heavily lidded and glistening with moisture, but it was the expression he wore that had Hanzo's breath catching. He looked blissful, like there was no experience more gratifying to him than having another man's dick in his mouth. It was  _ obscene. _ Hanzo was sure he had never seen a lewder sight in his life, just as he was sure he had never bedded anyone more absurdly attractive or shamelessly greedy for his cock.

 

He swore again, a hissed word in Japanese that he didn't quite manage to muffle against his arm. There was little chance of finding his composure again, and so Hanzo barely tried; instead, still clutching the headboard and curling his fingers in McCree's hair, he began to withdraw his hips, only to gently rock them forward again in search of some much-needed friction. 

  
  


Jesse was  _ greedy  _ for it, his own cock forgotten despite the way it throbbed between his legs with every quiet concession that Hanzo gave him in the form of a choked-off moan or a foreign-sounding swear. He didn't need to know the language to know he was getting praised for his efforts. 

 

Too drunk to be particularly coordinated, he didn't even bother trying to alleviate some of the pressure, fingers briefly fluttering towards his dick but abandoning the attempt half-way through in order to clamp back around Hanzo's thigh, half for stability and half for the sheer pleasure of tense muscle under his palm. Hanzo was slick with sweat and hot with want, shifting up and forward like he had any more to drive into Jesse's mouth. Jesse took it all in stride, swallowed,  _ moaned  _ like some needy whore, chancing a glance up to catch the pleasured expression that Hanzo couldn't hide no matter how hard he tried. Then Hanzo moved, and Jesse's attention drifted back to what he was doing, eyes closed and hands rocking the man further in. He felt the tip of Hanzo's dick against the back of his throat, felt it drag over his soft palate, felt the head catch behind his teeth, which he was just careful enough with to keep out of the way, and then was left kissing the slit, which drooled a steady stream of precome over his cherry-swollen lips. 

 

Jesse kept his mouth open even when Hanzo pulled out, presumably under some pretense of letting either him breathe or calming himself down, and let loose another obscene noise, groaning deep and rumbling in his chest. It was half for show - loud and intended to have the flush on Hanzo's chest crawling ever-lower - and half because in the next moment Jesse leaned back forward, chasing after the taste of Hanzo's dick like it was truly the only thing he needed in his life. He didn't want Hanzo to get the chance to calm down, or even to think, not when he could be moaning and coming and making a bigger mess of Jesse's flushed cheeks. 

 

Instead, he doubled his efforts, encouraging the roll of Hanzo's hips over his tongue and into the wet heat of his mouth, until they had something of a rhythm set up with Jesse sucking when he could and slurping when the tight seal of his lips broke around the girth of Hanzo's cock. 

  
  


The  _ sounds  _ coming out of McCree's mouth now were no better than those that had preceded; every lewd slurp and shameless, guttural moan had Hanzo's cheeks burning as hotly as they had when McCree had been uttering sweet nothings. So much for shutting him up. This man was truly a menace, a threat to Hanzo's proudly maintained control. He was unabashedly whorish in a way that should be making Hanzo's lips curl,  _ loud _ in every meaning of the word in a way that Hanzo should find repellent.

 

Instead, he was hopelessly drawn to this beast of a man -- hopelessly  _ attracted _ . Hanzo cursed himself for it, for letting someone so vulgar and debauched reduce him to this.

 

The slow rock of his hips and bobbing of McCree's mouth had him quickly falling apart. He held fast to the headboard and to the hair twirled around his fingers, yanking perhaps a bit too hard when he felt teeth gently scrape his foreskin. He was hunched forward now, eyes once again pressed shut as though denying himself the sight of McCree's mouth around his cock might help keep him steady. His lips were parted around a now near-constant stream of breathy grunts and sharp gasps that escaped him in time to the rhythm of McCree's sucking.  _ Damn him _ for having such a talent for this, though Hanzo knew he had only himself to blame for suggesting it in the first place. He had only himself to blame for relenting to the fool's advances in the first place, really. None of this would be happening if Hanzo had turned down the offer of whiskey by the fire.

 

Now he was buried to the hilt in the fool's absurdly talented mouth, and well-aware of the fact that he had already been reduced into a quivering, undignified mess. 

 

" _ Damn you,"  _ Hanzo was rasping in Japanese, pressing the words between his clenched teeth and nearly  _ keening  _ when McCree's throat spasmed and clenched around the head of his prick. How he could do that without retching was beyond him. " _ And damn your mouth." _

 

He had the courtesy, at least, to remember to switch back to a language McCree could understand when he felt the coil of heat in his stomach begin burning white-hot.

 

"Close--" Hanzo used the hand buried in McCree's hair to try and hold him still, intending to pull out of his mouth before he finished. 

  
  


Jesse McCree did not throw his inhibitions out of the window to be denied  _ this _ . His fingers dug into the meat of Hanzo's thighs to keep him close, to keep him buried to the hilt in the wet heat of his mouth while Jesse sucked hard, drool ignored when it slipped from the seal of his mouth and got lost somewhere in his beard. He  _ wanted  _ Hanzo to come, wanted him so far gone that Hanzo had no will to try and hold himself back, even if it meant that Jesse would be jerking off in the shower afterwards with the taste of come still lingering on his tongue. He was nothing if not greedy, swallowing around the thick shaft like a man starved until Hanzo's hips lost their rhythm and Jesse was forced to use the last of his own quickly-faltering concentration to urge Hanzo in tighter and hotter and harder, damn near choking himself on the length of his dick. 

 

When Hanzo came - and he did come, caught between Jesse's wide hands digging marks into his hips and Jesse's mouth sealed tight around his dick - Jesse swallowed as much as he could, gagging on the sudden, though not unexpected, flood of come over his tongue and down the back of his throat. He gagged, and finally, finally pulled off, catching the last spurt on his cheek and against the bridge of his nose. 

 

It wasn't long before his mouth, ever-poised to spit out the first thing that came to mind, let loose another string of compliments, slick mouth pressed to Hanzo's inner thigh. "That was  _ perfect _ , darlin'. You taste so good," he slurred around ragged, desperate breaths and the hickey he left on Hanzo's inner thigh, falling back once it was red and splotchy. Just something to remember him by, while they made the trek to the next warm bed and closed door. Jesse made no bones about wanting this again, and now that the proverbial dam had broken, he didn't think his performance was so  _ poor  _ that Hanzo would deny him a second time. 

 

" _ Beautiful _ , sweetheart." With his cock spent and the crease between his brows smoothed out for the first time since that night with the whisky, Hanzo looked like he'd enjoyed himself, at any rate, and Jesse spent only a moment teasing his fingers over his ribs and up to those pale, pink nipples, flicking each in turn before letting his palms drop back down and around his waist, mouth pulled into a smug-looking grin despite the come drying in his beard and on his skin. 

  
  


Hanzo should not have been surprised by McCree's insistence to swallow down his spend -- he was filthy and unabashedly eager, in a way that Hanzo would have been annoyed by if his mouth didn't feel so divine. He stopped trying to fight away from the desperate grip of McCree's hands on his ass, abandoning his efforts to pull away before he came. Hanzo had only been trying to do so as a courtesy, but there was no need for that if McCree was going to insist on swallowing him down with such voracity.

 

He didn't manage to last much longer, unable to keep himself paced when the cowboy was pulling him insistently into his clenching throat and clawing shallow marks into the meat of Hanzo's hips with his dirty fingernails. The coil in Hanzo's gut tightened, his hand twisted in McCree's messy hair, and seconds later he was groaning his release into the heady air between them, the sound not quite as muffled as Hanzo would have liked but still relatively subdued. Hanzo was not a loud man, even when he fell apart.

 

Still, that was not to say that Hanzo looked anything less than  _ wrecked; _ the characteristic tension in his face had melted away the moment his orgasm crashed through him, the hard set of his mouth and brow softening, the crinkles around his eyes smoothing out. Hanzo's lips remained parted around another quiet string of gasps until he had the mind to bite down on his lower lip to silence himself, but by then it was far too late, his cool demeanor already shattered. He couldn't bring himself to care, either, too smitten by the clenching heat around his cock, milking him nearly dry until McCree finally seemed to acquire a gag reflex and withdrew his mouth with a wet cough. Hanzo might have felt apologetic if he wasn't still cumming, thighs flexing and squeezing either side of McCree's head and hips twitching as if to bury himself again in that sinfully tight throat. And even when he was finished, boneless and sagging against the headboard, Hanzo couldn't find it in himself to say anything. For a long moment, he was left speechless.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For anyone curious:
> 
> Fresh wrote for McCree  
> Tea wrote for Hanzo


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Happy Valentine's Day, have some more smut!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This account is run and managed by two people: Tea and Fresh.
> 
> We are RP partners, and we're using this platform to unload our (copious) number of RPs.  
> Mostly smut, tbh.
> 
> The POV changes frequently, given the nature of roleplay writing, and if there are any noticeable continuity gaps it's 100% because the rp was abandoned for a few days/weeks before getting picked up again.
> 
> None of these works have been edited, touched up, or polished.

It was really too bad that the same could not be said for McCree. The silence between them was brief, interrupted at first by only Hanzo's shuddering breathing, until McCree started speaking.

Hanzo's eyes snapped open, throwing McCree a glare that was too softened by his orgasm. At first he could not muster any words, grunting weakly in protest at the teeth worrying at his thigh and then flinching away from the hands on his oversensitized chest. His skin was still hot and electrified, and every touch felt bordering on too much. Hanzo disentangled his hand from McCree's hair but didn't pull away from him quite yet, disinclined to move until he felt some of the strength return to his limbs.

 

" _ Shut up,"  _ Hanzo grumbled, for a long moment not realizing that he'd said that in Japanese because it would probably be ineffectual regardless of what language he used. The fool barely shut up even with a cock in his mouth. Still, he tried again, slowly crawling off of McCree's face as he spoke, his face flushing red at every term of endearment. "You talk too much."

 

"Talk enough for both of us, daresay." Fucked out was a good look on Hanzo, with his loose hair wild and his jaw a little slack. Jesse took a moment to burn the sight into his memory for those inevitably cold nights in the future, once they'd reached Dorado and parted ways, then licked his lips, catching bits of the mess that had been made of his cheeks on the tip of his tongue. "If ya minded that much I'm sure you would've offered t'pay for my silence by this point."

 

He couldn't seem to keep his hands away, touching Hanzo's thigh and the plating of his knee even as the man moved off. Maybe it was a testament to his own arousal - to the heat that coiled low in his gut and made itself more persistently known now that Jesse wasn't otherwise occupied - or maybe he just liked the way Hanzo's skin felt under the wandering tips of his fingers, still slicked in sweat and warmed up from their shared body heat. His other hand strayed lower, over the curls of hair matted down where Hanzo had straddled his chest, over the thicker tufts across his stomach and down his treasure trail to reach its mark, body-warm metal wrapping carefully around the shaft his dick. It almost felt like the hand was not his own, pressure barely-there and sensation jarring even when he knew it was coming. Jesse had learned to like it well enough over the years, though, and took himself in hand now with little more than an upwards twitch of his hips, tipping his head back against the pillows.

 

"And anyway, what else ya got to listen to out here, hm?" he rambled on the upstroke, feeling up the inside of Hanzo's thigh with no real destination in mind. "Your skin's so  _ smooth _ , darlin'." Barring the thatch of neatly-groomed pubes and sparsely-haired thighs, Hanzo was all but bare everywhere else, soft and warm and a little wet where Jesse had drooled on him just minutes prior. "Soft, too. A man could find himself a little  _ too _ comfortable between those thighs of yours." He wasn't particularly aware of what tumbled from his parted lips, letting it come between bitten gasps and low, sweet groans while he slowly worked his dick from base to tip, but if it had that pink on Hanzo's cheeks going brighter than it probably wasn't a bad thing, all told.

 

"Maybe you'll actually fuck me next time, huh? Even if I'm  _ filthy _ . Wonder what that makes you, sweetheart. Bet there's all kinds of dirt under all your  _ propriety _ , and I'm hopin' you'll let me find it sometime." On anyone else, the meandering stream-of-consciousness would have sounded absurd, but Jesse was too earnest, bright, lust-filled gaze on Hanzo's face and knuckles brushing carefully over Hanzo's softened cock and balls before continuing up his flat stomach.

  
  


If McCree's intention was to get Hanzo even more flustered than he had been already, he was succeeding. Between the filthy stream of words flowing non-stop from McCree's mouth, and the sight of him splayed out and smirking with a metal hand pulling at his cock, Hanzo was left breathless and staring. It was almost unbearably lewd, watching McCree pleasure himself while he sang Hanzo praises, those honey-brown eyes boring into him so intently that Hanzo was sorely tempted to look away. He found that he could not, too mesmerized by the display, by the flex of McCree's bicep as he pumped his prosthetic hand, by the dark flush of his dick, wet and glistening at the tip, by the shuddering rise and fall of his thickly-haired chest. Hanzo had never had much interest in porn, but he might be tempted to change his mind if it was anything like  _ this _ . The shameless, brassy moans tumbling from McCree's spit-slick lips were already threatening to drive him mad.

 

When Hanzo felt McCree's other hand begin idly fondling at his still-oversensitive skin, he batted it gently away, jostled at last from his stunned stupor. He wasn't going to sit here being made a dumbly blushing fool while he watched the cowboy stroke himself to completion. Hanzo told himself that it was pride that had him crawling back on top of McCree, sitting astride his thighs and pointedly nudging aside his metal hand. Pride was what had him suddenly so intent on returning the favor. It was certainly not his ignoble  _ hunger _ to lay hands on every dirt-caked, hairy inch of this fool, nor the desire that burned hotly in his veins even now that he was wrung dry and sated. 

 

_ " _ Quiet," Hanzo demanded, somehow mustering that cool, imperious tone of his despite his dry mouth and spinning head. With McCree's hand out of the way, he wasted no time in wrapping one of his own around his dick, trying to ignore the excited flutter in his chest at just how  _ thick _ it was, at how it throbbed against his palm in time with McCree's pulse. He wondered how long he would be able to keep his mouth around it before his jaw began to ache, then wondered why that thought had him choking down a groan.

 

The moment McCree's wandering hands found their way back to Hanzo's thighs and chest, he squeezed the man's cock threateningly and swatted them away. He had let McCree fondle him more than enough already; now it was Hanzo's turn, and he was loathe to be distracted.

 

"You have no self-control," Hanzo chided, beginning to work McCree's cock at a slow, even pace, nowhere near what the man surely needed. Hanzo was in no rush. "Neither over your words nor your hands--  _ stop that _ ."

 

He squeezed the base of McCree's shaft a second time and shot his offending a hand a sharp glance. 

 

"Keep them at your sides."

  
  


Jesse didn't get to touch anything - neither Hanzo's smooth thighs nor his own aching dick - much longer. As suddenly as though snapped out of a dream, Hanzo scrambled to perch the whole lithe line of himself on top of Jesse's lap, kneed tucked in on either side of his thighs and leaving him comfortably trapped under that solid weight once more. Jesse liked it, though. He liked that Hanzo wasn't fragile, that he had weight and muscle and strength in his compact form and calluses on his hands that were just the right side of too rough when squeezed around his dick.

 

"Can't keep my hands off ya, sweetheart," he murmured when he was not once, but several times reprimanded, shrugging like it wasn't within his power to control his wandering fingers. They reached again almost before he finished his poor defense, tracing the pronounced muscles at the top of Hanzo's thighs. "You're just that handsome." Charming, too, if he didn't frown so much.

 

"You can't tell me you're incapable of focusin' on two things at once, darlin'. I ain't tryin'ta distract you." Except he blatantly was, fingers pinching pale marks into Hanzo's thighs and up his bruise-stained hips. His dick was squeezed in another warning, but this time Jesse didn't relent even as his hips bucked into that tight fist, lip caught briefly between his teeth before he gave up entirely and let loose another ragged, honey-sweet moan.

 

"Y'know, I like it a little rough," he groaned, lashes fluttering and flush shamelessly creeping down his chest. "Makes it all the better when you get all sweet on me."

  
  


So  _ incorrigible _ . Hanzo sniffed in displeasure but was unsurprised by McCree's continued efforts to fondle him, as though he was incapable of keeping still (and quiet) for more than a couple brief seconds. At least Hanzo had expected this lack of self-discipline, and so he stopped flinching when McCree's hands returned to his thighs and hips, stroking and touching with single-minded determination. If he was still in his youth, Hanzo was certain he would be growing hard again under those rough hands, but his spent cock still gave an interested twitch when McCree's nails raked down across his ribs and his metal fingers pressed bruises into his hip.

 

Not for the first time, Hanzo wondered what it would be like to get this man under control, to have him properly  _ obey _ . He doubted it was entirely possible; McCree was as wild as the desert where he had lived all his life. Perhaps that was why Hanzo was so sorely tempted to tame him.

 

And there was that quieter realization, too, of why he found this man so attractive. There was something familiar about his unruliness, something reminiscent in the wicked glint of his brown eyes that had Hanzo subconsciously and helplessly endeared.

 

"Then perhaps I should tie them to the headboard," Hanzo responded, matter-of-fact, though there was a roughness to his voice that betrayed his efforts at appearing unaffected. He really was tempted to find something to bind McCree's wandering hands together, but the implication that he wanted the cowboy to stop touching because he was  _ distracting _ had Hanzo's pride smarting. How easily he would prove McCree wrong.

 

He indulged McCree with another few pumps of his hand before he began to move away again, ignoring any protests this earned him as he proceeded to slide down the man's body. Hanzo nudged his knees apart and positioned himself belly-down between the man's parted legs, both of his palms grabbing at McCree's hairy thighs to keep them spread to his liking. He had not originally intended to do this -- McCree needed a shower to wash away the smell of sweat and earth and musk that hung heavy on his skin. But temptation had gotten the better of Hanzo, and now that his mouth was hovering a scant few inches from McCree's hot, throbbing cock, he quickly forgot about his earlier gripes about uncleanliness. 

 

"Rough, hm?" he echoed, sounding thoughtful and perhaps faintly amused by the confession. "I will keep that in mind."

 

And Hanzo did --  _ oh _ , did he ever -- when a second later he bowed his head and sunk his teeth into the sensitive meat of McCree's inner groin hard enough to sting. 

  
  


"If ya could pin me down long enough to do that, I might even be  _ impressed _ ," Jesse drawled in response to that thinly-veiled threat, bucking his hips up for good measure and nearly displacing Hanzo's precarious perch. For all the strength and speed that Hanzo had, Jesse knew good and well how to make a  _ nuisance  _ of himself, and  _ he  _ wasn't above playing dirty. Maybe with enough prodding and poking, Hanzo wouldn't be either, but for the moment, Jesse doubted that was a fight the archer would win. He winked, the teasing gesture short-lived when Hanzo stroked his dick a few more times for good measure, and touched as much as he damn well pleased, pinching each of Hanzo's nipples and the soft parts of his stomach that he could find before the man moved away. 

 

" _ Hey  _ -" on the end of a discontent grunt, Jesse propped himself up on his elbows and was prepared to follow Hanzo wherever he planned on disappearing to, even out in the hall and up against the nearest wall. But Hanzo did nothing so absurd, merely sliding down and between his legs. Jesse was more than happy to spread them, shameless in how quickly his thighs fell open, even without Hanzo's prompting. 

 

"Mhm, I ain't porcelain, darlin'. I won't --  _ hnggh, _ " That was one way to shut him up. Jesse bit his lip against a startled gasp, unprepared for the sudden bite to his inner thigh. He hadn't expected Hanzo to be so forward with the  _ rough.  _ It had his toes curling after a hot second, the pain melting and blooming into something scalding-hot that went right to his dick. Jesse couldn't hold himself up anymore, falling back and off his elbows. His fingers twisted through Hanzo's hair, automatic like he could keep the man right there, right between his legs while his prick twitched drooled a steady stream of pre that left his foreskin shiny and wet. 

 

" _ Fuck _ , sweetheart." Most people tended to flinch away, but Jesse only pressed into it, trying to cant his hips up and nudge Hanzo's head down in the same move, desperate and eager for another sting of teeth. "Darlin',  _ darlin', please _ ." He wanted those marks to litter the insides of his thighs, to purple and redden and leave him sensitive in the days to come, and he wasn't above asking for them, sweetly or otherwise. "Another one? Leave as many as you'd like,  _ honey _ \- you damn  _ angel _ , just like that,  _ fuck, Hanzo, please."  _

  
  


McCree's reaction was stronger than anticipated -- Hanzo hadn't thought he would be so quickly reduced to _ begging _ , his voice breathy as he babbled and pleaded for more. He already so desperate, and all Hanzo had done was bitten him.

 

He might have found it more pathetic if not for the rush of heat that moved through him at the sound of McCree's shameless keening. Hanzo didn't mind his loudness so much, in that moment, despite that the excessive use of  _ sweetheart _ and _ darling  _ was still leaving him flustered. It wasn't so insufferable when peppered with those frantic _ please _ s, at least, and Hanzo signaled his approval with a quiet hum buried against the smarting bite mark staining McCree's thigh. He could stand to hear more of this pleading.

 

He could also stand to feel another few sharp tugs at his hair, annoying though it should be that McCree was tangling it with his fingers and trying to keep Hanzo in place.

 

Regardless, he did not indulge McCree the moment he asked, both because patience was a virtue that the cowboy could stand to learn, and because Hanzo preferred to draw this out and _ enjoy  _ it. His eyes raked up McCree's body, drinking in the sight of his tanned skin and thick muscles and the dark expanse of hair before they came to rest on his face. Hanzo watched him intently, not bothering to feign disinterest as he gauged every small shift in McCree's expression. He had missed so much of it earlier, too concerned with his efforts to stave off his orgasm and keep some modicum of self-control that closing his eyes against the sight of the cowboy's hungry expression had been a necessity. Now, that was no longer a concern.

 

So, Hanzo continued to watch, settling again into the cool intensity of a hunter observing his quarry, digging his fingers into the thick meat of McCree's thighs, and ignoring his persistent squirming. When he at last took mercy on the man, Hanzo's teeth found another patch of skin inches away from the first and bit down until McCree squirmed. He stopped just shy of piercing skin, and followed the sting of his teeth with a harsh suck that brought blood to the skin's surface and left it darkly bruised. McCree tasted of earth and sweat, which came as no surprise. What  _ did _ surprise Hanzo was just how much he liked it, and how eager he was for more.

 

No longer as keen to drag this out, Hanzo kept his eyes trained on McCree's face and began to leave a trail of purple bruises along the crease of his thigh.

  
  


Jesse didn't even have the decency to be embarrassed about the blatant display of his hand. He keened, head tossed back and hair a wild, dark mess about his head, breath coming out ragged and desperate in response to the hard suction against his inner thighs. It had been too long, he realized belatedly, since he'd last had anything quite this sweet, too long since the last dark head of hair between his legs, since the last set of sharp teeth against his sensitive skin, laying claim on his inner thighs like their owner didn't already carry Jesse's life in the palm of his rough hand. The memory, coupled with another smarting bite, had Jesse's cock oozing another thick drop of pre into the curls of hair on his abdomen, rubbed in by the tip and leaving him a sticky mess. 

 

He wasn't going to last long, like this, but even that knowledge and the possibility of coming without so much as being touched didn't deter him. His fingers twisted tighter in Hanzo's hair, holding those silky strands and urging him closer when Jesse felt like there was more that could be done to his abused flesh, and his mouth kept running, praises sung and please hissed out from between his clenched teeth. 

 

"Ah,  _ fuck _ , darlin'. That's good. That's right; you're  _ so damn good _ ," he growled, hissing another expletive alongside the praise. Hanzo seemed just as eager, now that he'd worked the shakes out and decided that Jesse getting clean was the least of his concerns. Jesse, for one, was far too pleased by this development, despite the cramp forming along his right calf. That was fine, though. It was worth it for the soft mouth and the scratch of stubble over delicate skin. 

 

"Mn, you like that too, don't you?" His words came out in shorter bursts, punctuated by heaving breaths and startled whines when teeth caught his skin unexpectedly. " _ Oh _ , shit - sweetheart. I ain't - ain't gonna last long like this." Not even a few minutes, if Hanzo kept showering him in attention, leaving a slick trail of spit down his thighs. Jesse wouldn't be able to sit without being reminded of this, not for a few days, and the thought alone had him biting back a groan. He made the mistake of glancing down, face flushed and dopey grin tugging up the corner of his mouth when he met the dark brown of Hanzo's eyes somewhere beyond his cock, then immediately screwed his eyes shut, dropping back against the pillows with a grunt. "Fuck, you're  _ gorgeous _ ." 

  
  


McCree truly had no shame, nor any shred of self-control -- it was  _ embarrassing,  _ really, though try as he might Hanzo could not ignore the heat pawing at his groin with every strangled sound that passed the fool's lips. He wondered what it would take to rein this man in, to teach him inhibition and self-restraint. Assuming such a thing was possible, anyway. Hanzo had his doubts.

 

Besides, he found McCrees's candidness refreshing, a welcome change from the years he had spent in the company of men and women whose words always had double meanings,  whose intentions were never forthright and rarely benevolent. Hanzo's natural distrust made him skeptical of this particular quality of McCree's, but displays such as this were quickly whittling away his doubt -- not to mention his own well-refined control.

 

He huffed against McCree's thigh at the question, not deigning to pull his mouth away to answer it. _Yes_ , he liked this. How could he not? McCree was so responsive, writhing under his teeth and pulling Hanzo's hair, utterly at his mercy and yet making no attempts to struggle free. Then there was the sight of him, red-faced and blissed-out, his eyes scrunching shut and his mouth falling open around an endless series of expletives and praises and hiccuped gasps. His heavy cock was splayed against his soft middle, dark and drooling at the tip. He was already so close, and Hanzo had barely even touched it. Would McCree come just from the biting? It was an intriguing possibility.

 

More intriguing was how that cock of his would taste, and Hanzo -- usually a patient man -- had no desire to wait to find out. He bit one last mark against McCree's skin, licked the purple-red bruise, and then shuffled up closer. His hand wrapped loosely around the base of McCree's prick, holding it upright and gently pulling back the foreskin before he pressed an open-mouthed kiss to the prominent vein that ran up the underside. The smell and taste were heady, a musk made thick by perspiration and precum. Hanzo once again fought back a moan. This should not be so appealing to him -- McCree was  _ filthy _ \-- and yet there seemed to be something in his baser nature that had him desperately yearning for more. 

 

He did not deny himself. Still watching McCree's expression, Hanzo licked along the vein to the thick head of his cock before taking it into his mouth.

  
  


Jesse was filthy, but no one had ever taught him to be coy. No one had sat him down and told him that he was embarrassing. There were few things to be embarrassed of, in the barracks. Even fewer in the desert. They coyotes sure as shit weren't going to tell him that he'd shown his hand too much, and the stars continued to twinkle even when he shared his flask of whisky and got a little too cozy in front of the fire. 

 

Being straightforward and to the point had gotten him this far in life, and Jesse McCree was an old dog, disinterested in new tricks. 

 

It was exactly why, even with Hanzo huffing his annoyance in between bruises sucked into Jesse's thighs, Jesse continued to groan, loud and ragged, eager fingers skittering over Hanzo's hair and down the back of his neck before tangling back in those silky-black strands. He bit his lip, once, to choke back a particularly obnoxious noise, but even that wasn't enough to keep him from gasping when Hanzo finally brought his mouth to the underside of his dick. 

 

"Oh,  _ oh _ ." It was hot and wet, and Hanzo hadn't even gotten the whole of his sweet, tight mouth around Jesse's dick when Jesse shuddered and bucked, head thrown back and Adam's apple bobbing in time with his dirty moans. "Oh,  _ darlin', that's right _ ..." Just like  _ that _ . Jesse wasn't small by any metric, but Hanzo made such an honest effort that all he could do was moan, lashes fluttering open - he wasn't sure when he'd closed his eyes - so that he could glance down and watch the obscene stretch of Hanzo's mouth around the girth of his dick. 

 

"Oh, you're gorgeous, hon.  _ Beautiful _ . I'm gonna -  _ can I?  _ I'm just gonna-" He was babbling, he knew, but Jesse's tongue was tripping over itself between the sight of Hanzo sucking him down and the  _ feel  _ of it, sloppy-wet and so hot it was kind of a surprise that Jesse hadn't already shot his wad. "- gonna move a lil; I wanna  _ see _ ..." Canting his hips just a little, Jesse rocked his dick in deeper, feeling the dirty slide of Hanzo's tongue against the underside. It had him spewing more filth, an expletive in Spanish he couldn't seem to bite back, and it was only by the good graces of his own conscience that Jesse didn't shove in deeper, didn't force the whole of his cock into Hanzo's hot mouth. 

  
  


There was no way that Hanzo could take all of McCree's cock into his mouth, not when just the slight jerk of his hips had the tip of it already close to nudging the back of his throat. By Hanzo's estimate, he'd barely swallowed down half of the man's impressive length, and the thickness was already a strain on his jaw. 

 

It did not help that he could scarcely recall the last time he had bedded another man -- or a woman, for that matter. It had been a number of years, and while Hanzo had once prided himself in his ability to coax orgasms from his partners, he was not so confident in his ability to work his mouth around McCree's ridiculously sized dick. He was almost tempted to ask if it was some sort of American trait, to be so well-endowed, but Hanzo thought better than to stroke his ego. Besides, his mouth was otherwise preoccupied.

 

With an annoyed grunt as McCree continued squirming and twitching his hips beneath him, Hanzo gave the base of his dick a pointed squeeze and used his other hand to dig into one of the still-wet patches of bruises staining his thigh. It was a wordless reprimand for him to keep still, one Hanzo very much doubted would be effective. He huffed again through his nostrils, waiting until McCree's wriggling died down to near-acceptable levels, then began a slow, measured rhythm of his mouth and accompanying slide of his hand. He was methodical about it, in part because he had to be -- he was out of practice and struggling to keep this mouthful of dick without dragging his teeth or unintentionally gagging himself on it. Still, the experience was pleasant. Something about the hot, heavy weight against his tongue had Hanzo shivering, and even the bitter-salty taste of cum and sweat was making his head spin and his own still-oversensitive cock throb against the bedding. He still had his eyes on McCree, though it was becoming more and more difficult to maintain eye contact with the  _ look _ he was receiving, and with all those embarrassing endearments that McCree seemed unable to keep from gasping. There were a couple words Hanzo could not understand -- either because they were not English, or because McCree was simply too far-gone to enunciate past his gasps and moans. Either way, they made Hanzo realize that, endearments aside, he quite  _ liked _ the cowboy's gravelly, breathy baritone. 

 

With an involuntary groan, Hanzo dug his nails deeper into McCree's thigh and bobbed his head a bit faster, trying to ignore the muffled (albeit nonetheless lewd) sounds of his swallowing and the wet slide of his fist.

  
  


He was making a nuisance of himself, Jesse knew, but it felt too good and even when Hanzo was seemingly annoyed by the twitches and jerks of his hips, he kept on sucking him down, warning squeeze and all. It only made it hotter, and the too-gentle reprimands had Jesse wanting to see how far he could push that waning patience. On the other hand, he didn't want to lose the hot suction around his cock, nor the way Hanzo's throat occasionally spasmed - just enough to send a sweet vibration down the shaft. 

 

"Look at  _ you _ , makin' a mess. Prettiest damn thing I've ever seen," he slurred, shuddering when Hanzo's hand joined his mouth around his cock. There was something to be said about the fact that Hanzo couldn't fit him all, but Jesse was at a loss for words, babbling endearing nonsense as he closed his eyes and tried not to move  _ too much _ . 

 

His hands continued to lightly pet, though, and every time Hanzo sucked a little too hard or squeezed the thick base of his dick, Jesse couldn't help but twitch, another sound or swear falling from his parted lips. "So good, Hanzo. You feel  _ amazing _ ." Though whether that was by virtue of the fact that Hanzo was even doing this to begin with or because it was  _ him _ , rather than anyone else, Jesse wasn't sure. The closer he got to orgasm, the less it mattered, anyway. Hanzo had that soft mouth wrapped around his cock like a man starved and Jesse couldn't of been more grateful for anything else in his life, at that moment. 

 

Unfortunate, that it had to end, but Jesse had been aching for this for days and Hanzo was making every concerted effort to throw him over the edge. Who was he to deny such determination? Minutes passed, too fast to be fair with Hanzo's sweet mouth and lewd sounds wrapped around him, and Jesse could feel the way his balls drew up, the pool of heat at the base of his dick spreading and his body growing tense. 

 

"Ah - darlin', _ m'close _ ." It was only fair to warn him, whatever good that might've done, for not a moment passed before Jesse was coming in hot, thick spurts that flooded Hanzo's mouth and left Jesse throwing his head back with a groan at the ceiling. 

  
  


It wasn't much of a warning, but then, Hanzo had not really expected one in the first place. He was given little time to react, only barely registering the slurred statement before he felt McCree's cock throb in his mouth and hand. An instant later, Hanzo was nearly sputtering on the warm flood of ejaculate that shot down his throat and pooled on his tongue. It was salty and acetic in a way that had his nose scrunching as he quickly pulled back, catching a few final drops on his lips and neatly-trimmed beard as he did. Hanzo was not generally one for swallowing; the taste did not tend to appeal to him, and his bed partners had always been such transitive flings that the thought of indulging in such an act for their benefit had never occurred to him. But Hanzo had to admit, at least with  _ McCree _ , that it didn't bother him nearly as much as he let on. 

 

He disentangled himself from McCree's hands and shifted back onto his knees, staring him down imperiously as he swallowed what spend had collected on his tongue and wiped away the rest with the back of his hand. His jaw was pleasantly aching, and Hanzo couldn't seem to keep himself from drinking in the sight of McCree, sweaty and satisfied, his dick wet and softening against his furred stomach. He looked good like this. He had looked good before, too. 

 

Hanzo wished he could bring himself to feel annoyed by it all. This was  _ not _ how he had imagined their evening would go. This was not how he expected anything would go, really. McCree was so contrary to everything Hanzo thought himself attracted to; all things considered, he should find this fool intolerable _. _

 

" _ Why you, of all people?" _ Hanzo muttered the self-directed question aloud, this time intentional in his use of his native tongue; to McCree's ears, the flatness of his voice perhaps came across as disdainful. 

  
  


Jesse was left panting, knuckles delicately resting against his forehead while he caught his breath and spent the last of whatever he had over his stomach. He hardly noticed Hanzo moving away, too caught up in the pleasure and the sting of his thighs, exposed to the cool a/c as they were. Moments passed before he lowered his legs, and then more before he finally closed his mouth, swallowing thickly and lifting his head at the disgruntled sound of a foreign tongue. 

 

"Aw,  _ honey _ -" and now that the petnames had started, it seemed like they weren't in any hurry to stop, the endearment rolling off his tongue just like it's namesake, too sweet and nearly cloying, "- it wasn't  _ that  _ bad." Hanzo looked far too put out for a fella fresh off an orgasm, with his dick resting spent against his thigh. Jesse grinned, dashing and wide, rolling himself up into a sitting position and snagging both of Hanzo's wrists before the man could react. He'd sobered up over the course of their tryst, but even his newly-gotten clarity didn't seem to slow his reckless actions down. Tugging until Hanzo pitched forward, Jesse leaned back and got them situated in a kiss, mouth pliant and teeth catching Hanzo's bottom lip for a sweet second. 

 

It was slow and filthy, the very definition of indulgence with Jesse's hands slotted over trim hips and Hanzo's hair brushing his cheeks. If it weren't for the fact that Hanzo seemed keen on putting distance between them, Jesse might've been content to kiss him just like that the rest of the night. He let go, however, when he felt the man stiffen on top of him, touches lingering like he couldn't possibly get  _ enough  _ until the last moment when there was some polite distance between them. 

 

"Guess I'll go take that shower now, huh darlin'?" Another cheeky grin had the corners of his eyes crinkling pleasantly, crooked teeth on full display. "Unless you're wantin' t'share, that is." 

  
  


In all honesty, the kiss wasn't so bad -- even if McCree's mouth tasted like liquor and cum. Hanzo was sorely tempted to give in, and for a fleeting few moments he  _ did _ , eyes half-lidded and body sagging into the kiss. He almost reciprocated it, too, but ended up stopping shy of running his tongue along McCree's bottom lip and stiffening up instead. The sex had been one thing, a mutually beneficial arrangement in which they could both find release. But this? Kissing for the sake of kissing felt too much like  _ affection _ , and Hanzo thought better than to indulge it.

 

Fortunately, McCree seemed to pick up on his tension and pull away before Hanzo made any special effort to shove him back. His toothy smile was blinding and -- annoyingly enough -- Hanzo could not help but notice that McCree looked disarmingly handsome when he grinned like that. It weakened his resolve and softened the characteristically dour set of his expression. He didn't smile back, but Hanzo's cool glare had become noticeably warmer. 

 

"I already showered," he replied, and -- just to make certain that his answer was clear enough -- Hanzo elaborated, "I will pass."

 

He left no room for argument; before McCree could get in a word edgewise or make any effort to convince him, Hanzo was moving off the bed and making a point of looking busy as he rummaged through the neatly-organized contents of his rucksack. To his credit, the cowboy seemed to get the hint, trudging off to the bathroom shortly thereafter. 

 

Hanzo was glad for the momentary reprieve; he needed time to compose himself. As the shower sputtered to life from the next room and the pipes loudly rattled overhead, Hanzo took the nearly-empty bag of jerky stashed away among his provisions. Then, not thinking much of it, he plucked McCree's discarded shawl from the pile of clothing he'd left on the floor (Hanzo turned his nose up at that; hopefully he intended to pick up his mess) and draped it across his shoulders. He had nothing to cover up with at the moment, what with his clothes still drying in the bathroom, and the thin sheen of perspiration now sticking to his skin made the air-conditioned air feel uncomfortably cool. The shawl helped, just as it had over the past couple nights out in the desert. Hanzo realized he should probably consider getting himself a similar garment on their next supply run, so he wouldn't have to constantly resort to borrowing McCree's. He wasn't going to make mention of it, though, not unless McCree said something first. Hanzo grudgingly admitted to himself that he had grown fond of the soft, slightly ratty fabric that always smelled of sweat and gunpowder. 

 

While McCree showered, Hanzo indulged his curiosity by rifling through the bedside drawers. The cowboy hadn't been wrong -- there were little foil packets of condoms and lube scattered inside, a surprising amount considering how scarce most supplies tended to be out here in the desert. Hanzo wasn't sure what to make of it. On the one hand, he supposed he could respect their appreciation of safe sex practices. On the other, there was something distinctly unsavory about a motel giving away complementary prophylactics, especially a motel as run-down and unclean as this.

 

Hanzo's nose scrunched in dismay, but he ignored the condoms in favor of the worn and yellowed copy of  _ The Bible _ that lie buried beneath them. He grabbed it, returned to sit cross-legged on the bed, and busied himself with flipping through its stained pages as he chewed contemplatively on a piece of jerky. The book was several decades old at least -- very few print copies of  _ anything _ existed nowadays -- and while Hanzo was by no means a follower of Christianity, he was glad to have something with which to distract himself.

 

_ For now _ , anyway; Hanzo had a very different idea in mind for how he would distract himself this evening, once McCree was back from his shower...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For anyone curious:
> 
> Fresh wrote for McCree  
> Tea wrote for Hanzo

**Author's Note:**

> For anyone curious:
> 
> Fresh wrote for McCree  
> Tea wrote for Hanzo


End file.
